


Woven

by mcal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Healer Hermione Granger, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Professor Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-01-10 23:18:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18417947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcal/pseuds/mcal
Summary: "Joy and woe are woven fine, a clothing for the soul divine..." Draco is a seasoned professor, Hermione is in the midst of a career change, and both are still struggling to find their place in their post war reality. Headmistress McGonagall is away on business as a series of unexplained pranks begin, leaving Hogwarts in disarray. EWE. Dramione short story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Welcome to my short story. There's a lot of me in poured into this; I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. This story would have been abandoned or deleted were it not for LadyKenz347. She and niffizzle have been incredible through all of this and I'm indebted to their time, advise and alpha work. CourtingInsanity is the most incredible beta ever. If you are not reading their stories, you should be! Go and read now!
> 
> Rating for mild language.
> 
> I own no part of the Harry Potter franchise.

* * *

_June, 2006_

"Welcome back to Hogwarts, Miss Granger."

"It's lovely to be here, Headmistress." The lie rolls off her tongue easily; she's said it often enough. After all, she's avoided this country and all that's familiar as much as Harry, Luna, or any member of the Weasley family will allow her to get away with the last several years...

It's almost _surprising_ to her when it _doesn't_ taste as much a lie as she anticipated.

Hermione offers a smile she hopes doesn't appear as tight as she feels it is and says, "I will admit I found the vagueness of your letter to be intriguing."

"As I'd hoped." Stern lips almost, _almost_ , quirk into a smile as the witch who's been Hermione's hero for fifteen years now claps her hands and leans back in the high back leather chair. "I hope the portrait backs behind me isn't too distracting for you." She waves to the wall behind them as Hermione gives a cursory glance.

She will admit to herself it is, and she suspects that the Headmistress has also silenced them, as she can't hear any protests. But, she smiles nonetheless and says, "Not at all. I'm not certain Professor Black would be happy to see me anytime soon."

The headmistress gives her a curious look, but doesn't ask.

Hermione hastily adds, "I hope you won't receive significant backlash for that, Headmistress."

"Not at all. They're used to this course of action with official business by now." The witch lifts her chin and continues, "I asked you here today, Miss Granger—"

"'Hermione', please."

"Hermione," the witch repeats, appearing to permit the smile this time. "And I'm either 'Minerva' or still 'Professor McGonagall' if you'd prefer. A few of the former students on staff prefer the latter still."

Hermione's heart seizes. "'Students?'" she queries. "Are there many more than Neville?"

"Oh, a few." Professor McGonagall (Hermione decides what's familiar is the most agreeable) tilts her head as in counting off a mental list. "You'll recall Miss Brocklehurst from your year in Ravenclaw, her sister two years younger has been teaching History of Magic for two years now. Theodore Nott has been teaching Potions for six years and Draco Malfoy has been teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts for seven."

_Seven years…_ Which means he's been here since just after the eighth year she never came back for. "I see," is all she says instead. She clears her throat. "It must be lovely to see the younger generations stepping up and filling in unexpected rolls. Where, precisely, would there be an opening for a Healer on staff, Professor?"

"Matron of the Hospital Wing, of course."

" _What?"_ Hermione can't quite believe her ears.

"What else would I be offering you, my dear?" Professor McGonagall is entirely serious. "Poppy has decided it's time to retire. My immediate first thought of a replacement declined interest before I even asked her about an interview, but in no time at all, my thoughts turned to _you_."

Hermione's cheeks burn and she presses her lips together to stave off a proud beam. "I've hardly any experience in the pediatric world, Professor. Just research and theories." _There_. She at least attempts some modesty… Which Professor McGonagall isn't believing for an instant, if the twinkle in her eyes is anything to go by.

"Mmm," Professor McGonagall muses. "I will agree that the first three years after completing your Healer training concentrated on the workings and reversals of memory charms. I recall you were also involved with a few collaborative studies on the long-term effects of torturing curses in that time as well—"

_Breathe, breathe, breathe,_ Hermione bids herself. _Do not stop breathing…_

"—but after you left Australia," the headmistress continues, unaware of Hermione's inner struggle, "your published studies have concentrated on children and youths. And as I'd not seen your name mentioned in recent academic periodicals over the last year, I made inquiries to Mrs. Weasley, who informed me you've been collaborating with a small magical school in America with pre-Healer training and I should like to see if something similar could be implemented here—"

_A lifeline!_ Something to tether herself to in this conversation that threatens to blow her away, or drown her in memories—whichever metaphorical disaster decides to attack first.

"So," Hermione interjects between a shaky inhale, "this position would include more than Madam Pomfrey's previous duties?" The distraction of details to throw herself at is good.

"In an ideal world, yes," Professor McGonagall answers. "You and I will both need to be in separate correspondence with the hospital board and heads of the various departments at St. Mungo's work out the details of this if we try it. I also think if you agree to all of this, you'll want to consider making inquiries with said department as soon as possible." Hermione's brows quirk, and the headmistress gives an airy wave of a hand. "If we're to empower our students interested to the fullest extent, you should be familiar with the inner system of the hospital; the last time I was there, it was like visiting a foreign country. They've their own language, organisational system, and—"

"Right." Hermione winces as she's cut-in again, but offers a crooked smile. "I'm well aware that hospitals are a world entirely their own and that sounds like an excellent idea— _if_ this is an official offer, and _if_ I accept…" She adds the last bit as if it to herself. As if it's a question.

Professor McGonagall blinks slowly at her over thin-framed spectacles; likely the same pair she had when Hermione was in attendance to Hogwarts. Hermione does her best to keep from shifting in her seat, but it's a challenge.

She's well aware she's been restless in Boston. An agitated emptiness has settled in her bones and she's been in denial for some time now. Her only comfort is when she visits Britain. Not necessarily when she spends time with Harry other familiar company from her childhood, but there's something about… _Britain._

It's in the air. The sights and sounds… The very _air_ she breathes here. In both muggle and wizarding parts.

For as long as she's been away, this country calls to her from across oceans. For as much she strains to breathe when braving her old neighborhood, it has some hold over her. The old faces and places haunt her dreams. They hover overhead wherever she is.

And she's tired. She's exhausted from ignoring this pull on her soul for _so long_ …

All of which her childhood heroine seems to discern in a matter of seconds, as there's a warmth in her gaze that Hermione swears wasn't there a minute before. She makes a show of coughing in her hands before picking up a quill and setting her hand over parchment. "Of course, we're getting ahead of ourselves. It seems I've yet to ask you any of the questions I'd prepared in advance, and perhaps we should transition into the official business part of the meeting."

"Yes." Hermione thinks her answer is something between a strangled noise and an exclamation of relief, but she can't bring herself to care. "I don't have any references or resumes with me, but I can send those to once I'm back in Boston."

"Of course, of course." Professor McGonagall makes a note off the to side of her parchment. "Now, we will start with something perfunctory: list three of your greatest professional strengths and please tell me why you consider them strengths."

Hermione's fingers lace together over her lap as she leans forward and begins.

* * *

Narcissa Malfoy gives a dramatic sigh into a bowl of porridge. "Oh, how this brings back memories of your first summers in school."

Her son snorts from behind the Quidditch section of _The Daily Prophet,_ not bothering to lower the periodical. "You've said that every morning for the last week since I've been home from Hogwarts, Mother."

"Yes, and perhaps if I say it enough, I'll annoy you into missing a breakfast at home once in a while."

Draco folds one side of the paper, shooting his mother look. "You'd prefer I eat breakfast in my room?" He releases the paper, rolling his eyes at the image of Mrs. Ginny Zabini scoring a dramatic goal in yesterday's match. He adds, "I'd no idea my company was so odious."

"It isn't _that_..." Narcissa's tone bears the unusual timbre of _pouting_. "It's simply that perhaps once in a while you could have prior engagements that would prevent you from eating breakfast with your mother."

The newspaper lowers completely at _that_ remark and Draco eyes his mother with an inquisitive furrowed brow. "Are you implying you'd prefer your son bed some random witch and th—?"

" _Draco!_ " The matriarch's blue eyes widen as a delicate hand clutches her chest. "There's no need for such language to make a point, young man."

"Says the cauldron to the kettle." The corners of Draco's lips quirk with the beginning of a smile as he reaches for his still-steaming teacup and sips it slowly. "You've been agitated every morning for the past four mornings, though, perhaps now you'll tell me directly what's on your mind, Mother."

Narcissa's hands drop to her lap as meets Draco's gaze. "I worry about you is all."

"Pardon?" _Not the answer he expected…_

"I _do._ " She nods and brings her interlaced fingers to the edge of the table, leaning in. "I can't help it, Draco. You just turned twenty-six, most of your friends are already married or in committed relationships."

" _Mother."_ This patience for this annual discussion is wearing thin...

She continues, eyes narrow and piercing. "You're always home over the summer; you never take a holiday anywhere, unless it's with Andromeda, Teddy and I—"

"My own choice, Moth—"

"You only ever go out in groups—"

"You just said no one there's no one still si—"

" _You don't even try!"_ Draco's mouth snaps shut as Narcissa's voice hitches at the last accusation. Her chest heaves and she reaches for her napkin and dabs at her mouth, as was her habit to regain composure. "This is not thriving, my son. We all needed time after the war, and I understood your need to focus inward after going back for that ridiculous eighth year. And I knew there would be adjustments and you'd want space and time to discern and decide the type of professor and man you wanted to be as you started in this new job, but now I can say without hesitation that _you're hiding_."

"I'm n—"

"You _are_!" She lifts a silencing hand, her head moving side-to-side in a slow, burdened movements. "I'm proud of you. You have to know I'm so proud of the wizard you've become. You pour yourself into your career and those students; the Headmistress boasts of the student's O.W.L and N.E.W.T. results in Defense Against the Dark Arts year after year, and I know you have a large role to play in that, for as much as you try to deny it.

"But you've withdrawn and you're hiding from the world now, and I can't imagine _why_." With a simple wave of her hand, the napkin folds midair as Narcissa rises from the table, eyes still fixed on her son. "The brand on your arm has all but faded. You've been master of the Malfoy estate since your father was locked up, and he's no say in your life. There's no reason to bear the weight of your past still."

She withdraws from the table with a dramatic flourish, while a raging coil burns within Draco's chest in the wake of her speech.

His left forearm itches. _Salazar_ , it burns with the memory of dark magic that once resided there, and he allows his right hand to compress, applying just enough pressure to soothe.

It will never be enough—can't she see that? The past is always with him. It haunts every subtle act of the present and lingers so that there is no hope of escaping someday in the future.

It will never be enough. Not to be forgiven.

He gulps a sharp breath; his fingers clench over his sleeve. Long sleeve button-down shirts always, and not just because it is more presentable.

He wants to be forgiven. _He wants to be forgiven._

The words roll and crash and pound against the fringes of his mind. He reels and scrambles for the calming techniques he'd learned from mandatory mind healing sessions during his 'eighth year' at Hogwarts…

His chest tightens and he fights to keep his breaths slow, deep and measured.

_He wants to be forgiven. It's never enough._

The name 'Ginny Zabini' races across his vision in a dizzying loop. Blaise has moved on and married a former-Gryffindor. Theo has moved on and married Daphne. Goyle has even found someone.

While he remains. His life stagnant and stale. The future of lessons, dueling club, exams, study groups and meals in the Great Hall looms over him, oppressive in its predictability.

But he will never be forgiven; he's no right to consider _more_. No right t—

Something lands in his lap with a soft ' _thud'_ and his mind reels. Reels and stumbles, struggling to break free from its own entrapment.

His fingers dive, skimming over what could only be a letter as his eyes blinked unseeing a moment more. An owl hoots softly in the background, her feathers ruffling as Draco's vision focuses on the lovely brown bird.

"Hello, Finn," he murmurs, swallowing once, collecting himself. He reaches out to let the owl give him an affectionate nip and looses a hard breath. "If you'll follow me to the study we'll see about letting you have a treat while I read what you've brought me and compose a response."

Finn blinks twice and nudges Draco's hand, which Draco has always presumed to be an approving answer of sorts. The owl perches on Draco's shoulder as they moved to the study, where the wizard rewards Finn's early morning efforts with a treat.

"Half a moment, boy," he says, turning his attention to the envelope addressed to him in the Headmistress' handwriting. His lips pull into a tight, thin line as he pulls against the red wax seal, an inexplicable sense of foreboding rooting in his chest as he withdraws the letter.

_Draco,_

_I know it's your holiday and this is rather sudden, but I wondered if you'd be so kind as to join me for tea in my office this afternoon at four o'clock?_

_If the time is inconvenient, please respond with an alternate time best suited to your schedule; I will adjust my plans accordingly._

_Thank you,_

_Professor McGonagall_

Draco reads the missive twice more before he writes a brief affirmative to her request and sends Finn on his way. He turns to the note again, observing the stationery is not official Hogwarts heading parchment. There are few other conclusions that can be derived he decides. Her use of his first name also indicates an informal meeting; however, there's the use of her own professional title. And the location is still her office. But there was also the fact she hadn't dated it, and it's all _highly_ irregular how it's come about.

His eyes continue to drift to the missive on his desk throughout the morning as he reads in his study.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: AH! I'm just tickled by the response to this story so far! You all are simply the best. This chapter is presented to you with alpha love and thanks to the gems LadyKenz347 and niffizzle. As always, beta love to CourtingInsanity.
> 
> I own no part of the Harry Potter franchise.

* * *

Draco sucks a sharp breath as he blinks at his reflection in the mirror.

"Good afternoon, Professor McGongall," he practices for the fifth time. He makes a face and gives a heavy exhale. He adjusts his tie, it's quite suffocating at the moment, and cards shaky hands through his hair once more.

Salazar, this is ridiculous. _He_ is giving into unnecessary and entirely inanenerves.

It isn't as if he and the headmistress are on _unpleasant_ terms; it's simply that he hasn't received an invitation to tea _this_ early in the summer holiday in all the seven years he's been teaching at the school. The perfunctory 'beginning of the school year' tea always takes place in August…

He yanks at his tie, muttering to himself as he tears at the knot and sets about tying it again for the _third_ time. With a final huff at his reflection, he spins on his heel and snatchs up his black robe. For all the other ingrained beliefs, traditions and habits he's discarded and recanted of in the last decade, it's an unchanging fact that a meeting with one's employer _always_ calls for a robe.

He collects his silver pocket watch from his bedside table and checking the time notes it's five minutes before the top of the hour. He snaps it closed and slips it in his pocket.

With a flourish, he marches to the fireplace in his room, grumbling about Jones and Michaels, hoping this meeting is about nothing more than their damned O.W.L. scores.

* * *

"Ah, welcome, Draco."

"Good afternoon, Professor McGonagall." Draco offers a stiff nod as he steps from the fireplace, brushing soot from his shoulders. She's still using his first name instead of his professional title; even so, his heart still races and he inhales a calming breath. "And to you all, Professors," he says, keen gaze sweeping across the back wall of portraits of previous headmasters, declining to meet their chattering stares for longer than necessary.

The headmistress's warm demeanor betrays nothing as she extends her hand. Draco accepts the firm shake, pleased when Professor McGonagall gestures in the direction of the front door. "I thought we might have tea in the sitting area, and not amidst all my paperwork at the desk, if you don't portraits have been particularly _chatty_ this week, and they've threatened me if I silence them again," she says with a withering glare at the wall behind her desk.

The portraits protest in loud choruses as Draco falls in step with the headmistress to a sitting area. There's a leather sofa and chair, a table with a pot of tea, cups, and full spread of sandwiches, scones, clotted cream and lemon curd.

"Will you be having your usual?" she asks in that customary, no-nonsense tone.

"Thank you, yes." His left pointer finger drums against his leg; he fights the urge to hold his breath as he sits in the leather chair and accepts a prepared teacup—Earl Grey with a squirt of lemon. "Thank you for having me; I trust you're enjoying a bit of a break while we're on holiday, Professor…?"

"I am, yes." She pauses for a delicate sip of tea, smiling into her cup before she looks back to him over her spectacles. "You can sit back in that chair, if you'd like, Draco; it won't bite or attack, I can assure you."

His cheeks flame and a nervous cough tears at his throat while the remainder of fingers on his left hand join in the agitated drumming against his leg. He _knows_ he's being absurd… "Apologies, ma'am; it's just that… This is…" His jaw clamps shut as the words freeze and die on his tongue. He gives a useless shrug and takes a fortifying sip from the strong, tart and warm brew.

"Yes, I realised when I sent the invitation this would be the likely response." She selects a cucumber sandwich from the tray and unfolds a crisp white napkin over her lap. "And for that reason, I nearly decided to write everything out to you before finally concluding you deserved to hear everything in person. And from me."

"Oh…?" Draco loathes that his voice was something between a crack and a squeak, and that he has nothing more intelligible to say at the moment. It's enough that he's still breathing, though, especially as his mind rips through a list of possible worst-case scenarios while the Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry polishes off a sandwich quarter in two bites, dabbing her mouth with her napkin afterwards.

She offers him an almost, _almost_ , sheepish grin. "Forgive me," she says, reaching for another sandwich quarter, "it seems I forgot to have lunch. But coming to the reason I requested you join me today, let me assure you that neither you nor any of your students are in any sort of trouble."

He nearly sags with relief in the chair, and but for years of etiquette training, he might have. "That's good to hear, ma'am," he admits, left hand stilling on his leg at last. "Is there any part of my curriculum you would like me review before our August meeting?" It seems unlikely given what she'd just said, but there's no other plausible thoughts as to why she's summoned him today...

"Your curriculum is exemplary; the best we've had since Remus." Her eyes soften behind their severe frames. "I see no reason to interfere and ruin what's obviously working. No, I asked you here today to inform you there will be a couple of changes to the staff this year." Draco's ears perk, but she continues speaking before he can insert an inquiry. "And it seems I'll be out of the country the month of August on holiday before attending an extended conference in America the month of September."

"I see." He doesn't really, and decides to take the humorous defensive route in this conversation. "Has Mrs. Norris had kittens, or Peeves finally decided to move and haunt some other lucky castle in Scotland?"

She makes a low sound that may have been a chuckle as she shakes her head. "Not at all. Madam Pomfrey informed me in January this may be her last year, and in April she officially decided she would not be returning for another school year."

"Oh?" _Salazar_ , he is hardly at his most articulate today, but… He clears his throat. "Was this something you were anticipating?"

"I had been, yes." She nods, sipping again from her teacup. "It seems her older sister's husband had taken ill this year, and he passed away in April. Poppy had already been dropping hints of retirement, but this was the final tipping point for her. She's taking her sister for a long summer holiday to Spain and she'll be making more time for her extended family and gardening when they return." A half smile tugs at the corner of the witch's lips. "She mentioned seeing about writing a book or two now that she will have the time."

"Well, then…" Draco looses a low chuckle of his own as he takes a scone. He adds a dollop of cream before he cutting into it with his fork. "I suppose it was only a matter of time. Am I here to see if I can help convince Daphne to leave the thrills of St. Mungo's for the simple life of a school matron?"

"No." The headmistress shakes her head again; the smile lines dissolve into a placid expression. "I reached out to Mrs. Nott at the end of April, but she declined the offer."

_Curious…_ Theo had mentioned none of this, but Draco's certain his friend would have his own reasons.

Professor McGonagall's lips press into a thin line as she threads her fingers together over the napkin in her lap. "Knowing your history with Potter, Weasley and Granger, I thought you should hear from me—" _No._ Draco's heart falters in his chest… "—that I reached out to Miss Granger—" He can't _breathe…_ "—And she interviewed for the position last week."

Everything tunnels.

_Everything_ assails him in an instant: screams, wails and cries. Matted, muddy and bloodied brown curls. Blood as red as his against dark hardwood floors…

Longbottom and this school—Draco has come to terms with them. He's made peace with these atrocities from his past, amazingly enough.

_But Granger…_

The headmistress is still speaking…

"...she spoke at your trial, Draco," she says, "and I hope that means I can count on you for peaceful interaction with her this coming year. Especially the first month in my absence."

"Of course!" he rasps, shaking his head. He grasps his teacup and relishes the burn as he drains the cup in one long gulp. "There'd be nothing discourteous from my end; does this mean she's accepted the offer?"

"She has." The headmistress's eyes dart to her desk and then back to Draco. "Mind you, there are some details we are sorting out, but I received her official acceptance this morning. And then I wrote to you." She holds Draco's gaze, unblinking and unwavering. "You're a tribute to this school and your profession. You've made a name for yourself in the aftermath of the war; Miss Granger is aware of all the staff turnover in her absence from the country.

"It's unfortunate the timing of it all, that I'll not be here to assure it's a smooth transition in right away, but there we are, and I just wanted you to be aware of the facts from me, Draco." She pauses, an incline to her head. "Professor Flitwick will be the interim Headmaster in my absence, but please know I'm an owl away for assistance, should you require any."

A lump wells in his throat that refused to be swallowed. His tongue seems to be glued to the roof of his mouth, for it is impossible to attempt at some sort of a response, apart from a curt nod.

Her expression softens again, aging eyes brimming with understanding. "Surely you don't believe that Slytherins and Hufflepuffs have the monopoly of loyalty, do you?"

He clears his throat and gives a fierce shake of his head as he forks another bite of his scone.

* * *

Draco's gaze fixes on his bookshelf as he absently swirls a shot of amber-coloured fluid in a crystal tumbler. He's just finished the task of reorganising their order, year of publication followed by author's surname in alphabetical order, a task he began immediately after returning home from his tea appointment.

He only pauses when summoned for supper, but he is solemn and evasive all throughout the meal. Call it mercy or intuition, but his mother doesn't push for idle small talk or deep conversation tonight. He returns to his room immediately after declining the pudding course, keen to complete his task before the end of the night.

But now it's done, and he can't sleep. He's yet to touch the drink he's poured; he can't tear his eyes from the books.

_Granger is coming to Hogwarts._ He scoffs aloud, dragging a hand down the length of his face. _Shite._

McGonagall was right: Granger _had_ spoken at his trial. He _had_ written her an appreciative and apologetic owl afterwards, inviting her to tea at any place of her choosing, but _she_ had written back declining his offer. Granger accepted his apology, politely thanking him for his role in saving her life (he still cringes recalling that detail in her letter), before promptly declining the tea, while still wishing him all the best.

His disappointment and momentary hurt at the time had surprised him, adding to his disconcernation, completing the confusing cocktail of emotions he'd come to discover in the aftermath of the war.

He made peace and apologised to anyone and everyone else he thought of after that. He kept his head down that Wizengamot-mandated 'eighth year' and accepted any and all emotional outbursts from the younger students.

That first year teaching he quietly, but firmly, stood up for himself when his fifth, sixth and seventh year students challenged his authority, and earned their respect when _every_ last student collected an 'E' or 'O' on all appropriate examinations at the end of the year.

He's moved on with his life. He's surviving and living regardless of his mother's opinion. The minuscule bit that remains, he's buried it away, no longer to see the light of day, unless stirred up by his mother...

Granger's pending return threatens it all. That facade of peace seems to know its days are numbered and already it begins to crumble.

His grip on the glass tightens as his brows knit together. He doesn't know how, but _somehow_ Granger's presence will—

"Draco?"

The chime of his Floo yanks his wandering attention back to the present. "Theo?" he answers, tongue heavy. He blinks three times and clears his throat as he steps to the fireplace, finding his friend's face in the flames. "It's late; is everything alright?"

"Yeah, everything's fine." There's an unfamiliar edge to Theo's tone; something Draco can't put his finger on, but he knows he's never heard before. "Can I come through for a minute?" Theo asks.

"Sure, mate." Draco steps aside, making room for his lanky friend to enter. (Only Weasley rivals his friend in the battle for height, but Theo, at least, has full control over his limbs.)

Theo comes through the fireplace in a blaze of green flame and curling smoke. "Sorry for the hour; we tried to make it over just after dinner, but Daph just couldn't…" His friend trails off, combing his hands through his brown hair, over and over. "Draco, she's pregnant," he says, eyes bright from an inner fire.

Draco lunges at his friend without thinking, grabbing him, slapping down on his back in a tight, but still manly, embrace. Their shouts and jubilant cheers echo in the room, and Theo soon pulls Draco along into a giddy jig about the room.

"Alright, alright." Draco chuckles, bringing their movements to a sudden halt, clapping his friend on the shoulder once more. "Congratulations! That's wonderful!" With a few casual hand motions, he adds Firewhiskey to another tumbler and summons both glasses. "How far along? And did I know you were trying? Or _were_ you?" He shoots his friend a faux accusing look...

… Which Theo takes in good stride, laughing, and clinking his glass with Draco's. "Cheers!" he says before throwing back the drink in one gulp. "Ahhhhh. To answer your questions in order of significance: first, yes, we were trying. We agreed she'd stop drinking her potion in January. Second, you didn't know because we decided not to tell anyone yet. Her mother experienced some difficulty getting pregnant with her and Astoria, we didn't want to create unnecessary pressure by constantly answering well-meaning, but inevitably nosy questions."

Draco nods, accepting Theo's empty glass as he sips his own drink and sends them both back to the table. "Another?"

"No, thanks." Theo waves him away, right hand tapping excitedly against his leg. "Salazar, I just… I can't believe it! We just had the confirmation appointment at St. Mungo's today; Daphne's eight weeks along and the heartbeat is nice strong… Merlin, Draco! I heard my kid's _heartbeat_ today! I can't even… _Wow_... "A glassy sheen coats his hazel eyes as he rakes a hand through his hair again.

"Quite a miracle," Draco murmurs, truly meaning it, refusing to acknowledge the niggling _something_ happening within his thoughts. He is _happy_ for his friend, that is that.

"You don't even know, mate," Theo continues. "It was clear and loud and the Healer said all seemed well for this far along. I fucking cried. I didn't even cry on our wedding day, but I _fucking_ cried hearing that beautiful sound. I can't explain it." He snaps his jaw shut, throat bobbing.

The niggle grows and spreads until it's a shadow of envy looming across the fringes of Draco's mind. He can't explain it; he doesn't _need_ a wife. He doesn't need heirs or tiny heartbeats he's never heard before. He's never begrudged his best friend, his brother in all but blood, _anything_.

But his mother is right; he admits that to himself here and now. He's locked himself away and will now have to deal with the fallout of _that_ somehow… He plasters a smile across his face as he listens to his friend chatter on.

He's already dreading the time when Theo will return home to his wife, leaving Draco to battle the darkness on his own.

* * *

Hermione hasn't considered herself to be overly sentimental for some time now—eight or nine years, to be precise.

Her eyes dart across two open, empty trunks before scanning the walls of her living room. Her flat in America is more spacious than the hotel rooms she always reserves whenever her travels take her back to Britain; Americans seem to have a need for more space than they know what to do with.

But, it's just as well she's leaving now. She's come to the end of her paediatric research project and hasn't decided what proposal to tackle next. If she is being perfectly honest with herself, the magical hospital here in Boston is probably _glad_ to see her leave; it means one less project to fret over spending money on, after all.

With a resigned sigh she lifts her wand, aiming for the landscape paintings. " _Reducio_ ," she commands.

They all shrink, one-by-one, and she ushers them to one of the open trunks. The books will be next; they fit nicely in with the paintings. Her clothes, shoes and personal accessories will all fit well in the second trunk and she's already written to a Healers-in-training from the hospital here who she thinks will appreciate being on the receiving end of practically new furniture and kitchen appliances.

Professor McGonagall has promised there will be furniture provided in her private quarters, and Hermione sees no reason to snub such a generous offering; at least, not until she's given the pieces a proper chance. She will _not_ do without her small library, however, that much will never change.

The paintings she's packing have all been acquired from her travels over the last eight years. There's nothing extremely emotional about _them_ , she sniffs to herself. It's simply that they are lovely mementos, and they'll add colour and texture to her quarters.

With a wave, a chanted spell, and a flourishing flick, her books float, shrink and pack themselves into the trunk with the painting. She sinks down into her wooden desk chair, allowing her thoughts to wander and plan.

She hopes to hear back from St. Mungo's within the week see if they would allow her to shadow Healer's throughout various departments over the summer. However, she won't be able to move into her quarters at the school until the last week of August…

Professor McGonagall hadn't thought there would be a problem with the request of shadowing, but… One never _really_ knows with Wizarding Britain. It seems a society and system bent on defying logic at any and every possible turn.

If the hospital grants her request, there's the question of where to stay, though… But two months living out of trunks is nothing she hasn't done before, and _can't_ do again…

She makes a mental note to send a letter to Professor McGonagall with inquiries about lodgings other than _The Leaky Cauldron_ first thing in the morning. If all goes according to plan, she'll let Harry know of her career change and move back a week after she's settled somewhere for the summer.

She blows out a sharp puff of air, raising a hand to rub at the corner of her eyes. Harry will make that emotion-filled face at her while reminding her she always has a home with him; his soon-to-be-fiancé Luna will echo his words in that ethereal voice of hers.

But none of that is new. It's nothing Hermione hasn't faced and turned down before.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Would love to hear your thoughts. Dramione coming next chapter--I promise. :)  
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm beyond thankful for the response to this short story so far. Thank you all :) Dramione interaction this chapter, as promised!  
> Alpha glory and love and admiration to LadyKenz347 and niffizzle. These two ladies are just incredible, and I hope you're reading everything they've written. Beta adoration to CourtingInsanity (another incredible author).
> 
> I own no part of the Harry Potter franchise.

* * *

_1 September, 2006_

_Hermione,_

_My sincerest apologies again for not being in the country to be available to answer any and all questions in person. I'm sure Professor Flitwick has been accommodating and assisting. I was also pleased to hear that you and Poppy were able to arrange to meet up in Spain before today._

_You will do well in this position, Hermione Granger. I am happy that between St. Mungo's and Hogwarts, we have been able to accommodate your career aspirations. I look forward to discussing the finer details when I return._

_Do remember that I am only an owl message away. I can even arrange emergency portkeys as needed._

_Enjoy tonight; one is only introduced as a fresh new staff member at Hogwarts once._

_Sincerely,_

_Professor McGonagall._

A delicate thumb traces over the headmistress's name as the beginnings of a tender smile tugs at the corners of her lips. Hermione sets the letter back down on her dark wood vanity and checks her reflection in the mirror once more.

Her navy robes are clean and pressed; her curls are fairly tame today and she's gathered them back into a simple knot. Agitated excitement coils in her chest as she tucks a stray curl behind her ear.

She _is_ glad to be here; to have this opportunity. To have such a chance at making an impact on young lives. To add more value to the children's education and help mold future Healers. It's thrilling to start something _new_ ; she's come to thrive off of that consuming rush of _newness_.

If only she weren't so unsettled still.

It took most of the month of July to feel a sense of normalcy at having her friends, her _family_ , part of her life again. A weekly lunch with Harry, one dinner every weekend with Harry and Luna. There was also the combined birthday and engagement celebration dinner in the middle of the summer, because Harry decided he needed his own reason for celebrating the last day of July.

There had also been a couple of shopping trips with Ginny, with the promise of more to come in the following months. Hermione had also been present for two boisterous Weasley family Sunday dinners, complete with all the prying and digging questions Hermione has come to enjoy _not_ answering the past eight years…

But she is _here_ now. Her sojourning ways have come to an end. It is time to adapt, adjust and assimilate.

Or go completely mental trying, at least.

She thinks she sees something in the mirror and shifts her gaze to examine her nails...

Neville will be at dinner tonight, a familiar face at least. And there is the added bonus that she's already seen him this week, too. He'd invited her back to his home for lunch yesterday, a family lunch with his wife, Hannah, and their lovely but shy daughter. It had been a welcome treat, surprisingly enough. Quite calming amidst the clamouring chaos of emotions readying themselves to descend at last. She's kept them at bay the past few days while settling into her new quarters at school, readying the hospital wing, taking inventory and stock of the potions and supplies.

But something deep inside her _knows_ the rising flood can only be held back for so long. That she's ready to admit she _has_ been running all this time. She _has_ been searching for something that's slipped just beyond her grasp at every turn.

She smooths her hands over her robes once more, swallowing thickly.

No more running. When she steps out of her room tonight, she's embracing this new chapter.

A chapter bursting with possibilities while being rooted and grounded.

A chapter of _staying_...

With a brief glance to her wristwatch, she turns and makes her way to the door.

Ready or not, the future is here.

* * *

The first thing Hermione notes from the Welcome Back Feast is that nothing changes. And yet, everything's different.

The hat of Godric Gryffindor still sings its song and the first years are still sorted. The feast still seems an impossible amount of food, and Hermione has already spotted some lanky youth from the Hufflepuff table who can't shovel food into his mouth fast enough.

She decides to slip in next to Neville, something else that seems reminiscent of the past. And yet, even this is unfamiliar in its own way. Neville is every bit the tall, confident and broad-shouldered wizard who'd stayed and fought the Death Eaters at the end of their seventh year. His eyes are bright and his laughter fills empty spaces, warming and touching those in his presence. She can honestly say that Hannah must be a special witch to have the love of Neville.

Professor Brocklehurst, Melanie (what _had_ their mother been thinking?), takes the vacant seat to her right and she's mostly relieved that it's someone new; _someone_ she has no history with. And yet, if she's being honest with herself (which she's not sure she is yet), her breath _might_ have caught when catching an initial glance of Malfoy from the other side of the table.

Maybe it's simply that it surprises her that he's seated near Hagrid and conversing with the half-giant who still teaches Care of Magical Creatures. Or maybe his jaw is stronger than she remembers and his hands movements are more graceful than she recalls.

Or perhaps it's that she can't recall the last time she's been on a date…

At any rate, Melanie slips into the vacant seat and starts in on the polite interrogation (all in the name of 'getting to know one another', of course) as soon as Professor Flitwick announces for the food to be served:

"I don't recall seeing you back at school with Mandy and several of the other 'eighth years'."

"I was in Australia. I studied a bit there and sat for the examination equivalents there before applying for Healer training."

"How exotic! Have you always wanted to be a Healer?"

"Not really. It made sense, however, in the aftermath of… Well... _everything_."

"Certainly. Have you been there this whole time? I hardly ever see your name in the papers."

Hermione takes a delicate sip of water to keep from pursing her lips. "Four years there," she answers with a shake of her head. "With a great deal of travelling around various countries in Asia and then another four years in America."

"How marvelous!" Melanie is clapping now, and Hermione cannot determine why. "That would mean you've just moved back for the start of the school year then."

"Well, I've been in Britain since July, but yes." Hermione mentally winces at her impulse to nitpick at the specifics, but Godric, she's irritated, and she can't put her finger on _why_ …

"Brilliant!" Melanie exclaims. "So, you've had ample time to lark about, though I still can't believe you were only mentioned once in the papers over the summer, and there was no specific information. Not a word of where you were staying or your moving back."

"I appreciate my privacy." It's an effort to not bite out the words...

"Oh, of course." The witch gives a flippant wave and sips her pumpkin juice before following up. "But _still_ , not even a hint of a classic Rita scandal at your staying with Potter for two months, and whether or not Luna was aware or not…"

Neville snorts in his drink and Hermione swears that Nott on the other side of Neville is shifting and leaning in, and Hermione has come to the bottom of her mysterious irritation.

She clears her throat and forces a smile. "Ah, Skeeter would have been disappointed as I made other arrangements for the summer."

"Ah, yes. The Weasley family home," the younger Brocklehurst declares as if it should have been entirely obvious.

That frustrates Hermione all the more, and she's unapologetic at the underlying smugness when she announces, "Actually, I stayed at your sister's inn this summer: The Doe and Stag."

" _What?_ " The younger witch is sufficiently stunned before sharing a conspiring wink with Hermione that Hermione only finds confusing. "Well, how d'you like that? Two months and Mandy never said a _word_."

"Perhaps because I made inquiries about a privacy clause when making my reservation," Hermione offers. Her coworker seems to be prepared with another question, so Hermione adds, "And also, I kept odd hours all summer. Your sister hardly saw much of me."

"Oh? Were you still finishing up things in America?" She gasps and breathes a youthful giggle as she says, "Was there some heartbroken wizard you left behind? That would be simply _delicious_. Will he come to visit you this year? Oh, _do_ say you'll have your American beau come visit before Halloween—it would make things ever so exciting!"

Hermione isn't imagining this time that both Neville and Nott have shifted and are leaning within close proximity (the fact that _Neville_ is curious surprises her, but she supposes he's in on Molly's conspiracy to marry her off by the end of the year). "Actually, it's not something I openly discuss much," she begins, cutting her eyes to Neville, who has the decency to blush, "and I'm thankful when people don't ask about it, but I'm not seeing anyone at the moment. And I've not left any broken-hearted wizard in America," she finishes, hoping that will be the end of it.

Professor McTalksalot Brocklehurst gives a heavy sigh and takes a bite of pork, which Hermione decides means the conversation has come to simultaneously disappointing and happy conclusion. They eat in awkward silence until Neville discusses a new plant from Greece Luna's father brought back from his travels last month, and how he's excited to present it to his seventh years.

The conversation quickly gathers speed again as Brocklehurst, Neville, and Nott all take turns discussing changes in their curriculum this year.

Hermione throws out a polite question here-and-there to convey she's a participating listener, but she's content to add little more to the conversation for the duration of the meal.

She sneaks a look down the table, noting Malfoy and Hagrid tucking into their food, eating in what appears to be mutually agreed upon comfortable silence. _Merlin's beard!_ It's entirely possible that _Malfoy_ may have been a wiser dinner companion.

At least, she presumes he would agree with the sentiment that _some_ things are better left unsaid.

* * *

Draco is self-aware enough to know he's lying to himself when he says everything's find. That _he_ is fine.

He most certainly is _not_ fine.

He has not been _fine_ since the Welcome Back Feast last night; since seeing _Granger_ last night.

Eight bloody years since last seeing her. She'd been a survivor then; a malnourished waif of a war heroine, brown eyes dulled with from the weight of the sorrowful griefs she bore…The eight years had been good to her. They'd been _very_ good to Granger.

She was a bloody _vision_ in navy last night—if he'd already been eating, he would have dropped his silverware. As it happened, he'd only dropped his jaw when Granger had stepped up to the teacher's table and Theo had _only_ smirked and waggled his eyebrows twice in the course of the night.

Draco had taken his usual seat, which had been too bloody fucking far away from Granger to hear a thing she'd said. Professor Brocklehurst (he still doesn't know her first name) had slipped into the seat at her right, while Longbottom was already occupying the seat to her left. Fortunately, enough, Theo often sits next to Longbottom, and it's nothing for him to slip into the available seat on the other side of the head of Gryffindor.

 _Theo_ caught every last word Granger divulged at the feast last night. And he is all too smug about it this morning as Draco asks him about it when they leave the Great Hall.

"She's not seeing anyone, if that's what you mean."

 _Stupid sodding prick._ It isn't. It _isn't_.

Well… It's not _all_ of it, not that he's admitting that to Theo. He makes a show of sighing. "I just meant there's been little mention of her in the last eight years and Longbottom looked ready to choke a few times over the course of a couple of hours…" He hopes that's evasive enough.

Theo's dark grin suggests it's not. "You know how painfully polite he is about things. Pair that with a Granger with secrets and a Brocklehurst with a penchant for gossip and you've got an entertaining evening."

"But surely none of her news is _news_ to Longbottom," Draco counters. "I heard them return from lunch at his house this week."

"Afraid I don't know what to tell you on that end, mate." Theo shrugs. "All I know is that she's been a world-travelling Healer since leaving the country, she stayed at older Brocklehurst's inn over the summer before moving into her quarters here, and she's not left some brokenhearted wizard behind in America." Theo follows up with a pointed _knowing_ look. "And now my question to you is, what do you intend to do with this knowledge?"

Draco swallows, his lips twisting as silence fills the space between them. "Nothing; at least, that's my plan at the moment," he admits at last. "It won't do to avoid her, and I suppose there's no reason to… We're at peace with each other... at least, I _think_ we are." He recalls his letter; the declined tea invitation and his stomach lurches.

Theo moves beyond him. "Definitely your call," he tosses over his shoulder, "but, I think we're all coworkers now. And you'll have dueling club starting soon. It'd probably to be best to make sure of it before she's suspicious of your teaching methods when several students start frequenting the hospital wing with all sorts of injuries and malladies."

The wizards part ways as Theo makes for the dungeon and Draco sighs again. Theo's not wrong. But the concept of talking to Granger, the witch who was once tortured in his home and is now a vision in navy, is a bit challenging to come to terms with.

Perhaps he can take the morning to ruminate over this and sit near enough to her at lunch to say… well… _something_.

* * *

But Granger isn't at lunch.

He would declare that understandable, but Draco remembers that he can't recall seeing the witch at breakfast either.

He spends five minutes telling himself that neither are odd, as they can easily just have missed each other in the Great Hall. He spends the following several subsequent minutes telling himself that it's plausible she doesn't know if she's allowed to dine with the professors or not… And he debates whether or not he should be the one to inform her, or if he should simply make note of his observation to Longbottom and let her former housemate check-in on the witch…

He wastes another three minutes wandering aimlessly about the halls, tossing mindless nods and salutations to students until he finds himself on the floor of the hospital wing.

Taking it as one of those fated signs his mother and other witches natter on about, he takes a fortifying inhale and considers it no small act of victory when he crosses the threshold and calls out into the empty appearing room, "Hello? Granger?"

"Yes?" A melodious feminine voice answers from the office beyond the rooms and his heart leaps into his throat.

He makes a vilient, but decidedly useless, attempt at swallowing. "It's Dra—That is… It's Professor Mal—" His cuts himself off, feeling like a nutter, and convinced he's making a fool of himself. "You have a visitor," is the response he decides on.

He hears what he surmises is the scooting of a chair over the stone floor before the world turns on its axis and Granger appears in the doorway. She's on the other side of the room still, but even from there he can see she's fucking _beautiful_.

A faint, possibly forced, smile appears on her face and her hands fold into each other as she steps out to him. "Hello, Malfoy. This is—" She pauses, head bobbing as she tucks some flyaways behind an ear "—ah, suppose we settle on this being a surprise?"

"To say the least," he agrees, venturing further into Granger's domain while wanting to turn and run in the opposite direction. He's uncertain what to say next… "I'm sorry if I'm interrupting you; I couldn't help but notice you weren't at breakfast or lunch."

 _Idiot_ , he hisses to himself as Granger ceases walking towards him, her chin lifting in question. "Have I done something wrong?"

"No!" He's quick to make _that_ known and honestly wants some disaster to befall some student to free him this situation he's created. But, as nothing happens… "It's just… When I first started teaching here, it caught me off-guard that Madam Pomfrey ate most meals with the teachers, until she told me that she's always done that. I just never took note of it as a student."

There's a delightful looking flush filling Granger's cheeks and she starts to twiddle her thumbs. "I see. That makes sense, but I should be thankful for your insight." She gives a light chuckle and lifts a shoulder. "It never occurred to me to ask about mealtimes, and I slipped down to the kitchens for breakfast. I've been so preoccupied here, I've not thought about lunch yet."

"All right." He nods, because Merlin knows he doesn't know what else to do or say at this point.

Granger spares him though, and adds, "It was good of you to make this special trip, Malfoy. Thank you."

"Draco," he blurts out before he can think twice. Granger's pending frown is obvious and he hastily continues. "Being called 'Malfoy' brings back too many memories of unwanted house guests during the war, and I prefer 'Draco'. Or 'Professor Malfoy' if that's simply too awkward for you, but since I'm not your professor, I don't see how it should be—"

" _Draco_ ," she interjects and he's shocked by how that gentle, flowing sound shatters his world as he knows it. The witch in fetching, professional navy robes proffers her hand. "In that case, I'm Hermione."

He takes her hand, it's porcelain, delicate and completely perfect. "Hello."

They smile and continue to shake hands. Draco swears he sees flakes of gold in her milk-chocolate eyes and he wonders what it would be like to dive in and lose himself to such sweetness. He forgets they're still shaking hands until Granger— _Hermione_ —drops their hold and her hand falls with ease to her side. "Was there anything else you came to discuss?"

 _Dueling club_ , he thinks. Now would be a great time tell her about the dueling he heads up, give her a proper warning for the potential future injuries coming her way…

He draws a sharp breath. "I was hurt when you declined my tea invitation."

Well, fuck. He wants the floor to swallow him now...

"Pardon?" Her eyes cloud in what could only be utter bewilderment.

"After my trial," he explains, determining all is lost now that he's wondering if those golden flecks will sparkle once the confusion dissipates. "In the apology letter I sent you, I asked you if you'd like to have tea sometime and you declined." She opens her mouth, but he continues. "You were polite and thoughtful with your words, but for whatever reason, that stung. It shouldn't have in light of the absolute shite I had been to you in the past, but it _did_. And now we're coworkers, and I suppose I thought you should know there was a 'tea incident' in my mind, and there's that."

His jaw snaps shut and he could burn for the fires of shame coursing through him over that rambling, bumbling outburst.

The witch's lips draw inward into a thin line as she blinks once. Twice. Thrice. Her head finally tilts and she asks, "Would you like me to apologise for that now?"

"No!" He nearly gapes at her and is scrambling to explain himself, but he catches her eyes. He finds golden flecks sparkling at him and he can't help the warmth spreading all throughout his body. He clears his throat. "As I said, it's really nothing in light of _everything_ else in our... well... again, the shite I was..." Bugger. This is a disaster.

He starts again as she continues gazing at him with that measuring stare: "No apology necessary; I'm not entirely sure why I thought you should know that now. Only that I had hoped you would accept, and it was slightly crushing to my eighteen year old self to be rejected, though you really had every right in the world too!" He's quick to add the last in, almost shouting it at her, and _Salazar_ , he wishes someone would cast a silencing spell over him _now_!

 _Hermione_ tortures him with a few seconds more of silence before her lips quirk, and it's like watching the sunrise for the first time after so long in the dark. "Well, I do apologise for the wounding to your youthful ego." Damn him, but she giggles and tucks a curl behind her ear and says, "You should know it had nothing to do with you, and everything to do with the fact I was leaving the country the day I received your owl."

"Oh?"

She nods. "A bit of a long story, but I left for Australia that day. And I lived there the next four years."

"Ah." Foggy understanding settles in his brain and there at least a dozen more follow-up questions he'd like to ask, but his time has run up. "Well, if you come down for dinner tonight or breakfast another morning this week, you'll have to tell me about Australia. Or anywhere else you've been the last eight years."

An expression of sorrow skims across her face while her smile continues. "All right." She casts a look over her shoulder before her eyes dart back to him. "I should get back to work in here."

And he's a class about to start and the other end of the castle to cross before he can make it, but he's not about to admit _that_. Instead, he finds himself wishing her a pleasant and productive rest of the afternoon and adds in his most inviting tone that he hopes he'll see her at the dinner

table tonight.

Her smile broadens and he's fucking _beaming_ as they part ways.

And he remembers he forgot to warn her about the dueling club.

But he's already said 'goodbye'. And he has a class to get to...

Draco is most definitely _not_ fine.

* * *

He's still not fine fifteen minutes later when the odd body part on some of his fourth year Ravenclaws vanish in the middle of class.

He can't quite believe his eyes. It's as small as an eyebrow or an ear for some, and he nearly convinced himself he's seeing things until Perry Masters' hand vanishes mid-spell, so that it appears his wand is floating in mid-air.

It's useless to regain control of his class after that, and he repeats to himself that all is certainly _not_ fine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The pranking begins! Would love to hear your thoughts :) Thank you for reading


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: If anyone celebrates Easter, a Happy Easter to you.
> 
> I'm indebted to alphas LadyKenz347 and niffizzle. This fic wouldn't exist without their support and encouragement. And more than anything, I'm thankful to all of you who've chosen to spend your time reading and leaving behind lovely comments on this story. It means more than I can express. Thank you all.
> 
> I own no part of the Harry Potter franchise.

* * *

Draco's brows knit together as his attention fixes on the list of names he'd written. Six fourth years, four fifth years, two sixth years and five seventh years.

All Ravenclaw.

At least that is the commonality in the mystery of the vanishing body parts. There seems to be no rhyme or reason otherwise. Some parts would vanish and reappear. Some had already faded out before coming to class and remained invisible for the duration of his class. The sixth and seventh years seem to do a better job coping than the fourth and fifth years.

Perhaps something had been slipped in their drinks at br—

" _Oof!_ "

"Sorry, I wasn't paying a— _oh_." Gra— _Hermione's_ jaw snaps shut and she catches her lower lip with her teeth, a curious flush blooming on her cheeks. "My mistake," she says, voice a bit low, as if she is embarrassed by more than simply bumping into him. "Wasn't watching where I was going."

"That's alright." He's quick to reward her sincerity with a reassuring smile. "Though, I suppose the fault is equally mine; there's been a situation amongst the Ravenclaws today."

Hermione nods, chocolate eyes dropping to a slip of parchment she's carrying, too. "I just sent two very distraught third year Ravenclaw girls back to their dorms and instructed a house-elf to bring them supper—Merlin!" She gnaws on her lip again, lifting her gaze back to his. "I hope that was alright. One's nose had disappeared without warning and the other's eyebrows and one set of eyelashes disappeared, and there's apparently a fit Perry Masters in fourth year they just couldn't bear to face at the dinner table."

A chortle passes his lips before he can stop it; escaping from his lungs and throat, filling the air between them. Distracted and lacking the common sense to see the potential negative repercussions of his action, his fingers lace around one of the witch's sleeved elbows, and he turns her to walk with him.

Her steps lag and he drops his hand. "Apologies," he says, heat flooding his cheeks. "I presumed you were heading to the Great Hall for dinner, but I shouldn't ha—"

"I was," she cuts-in. "That is, I _am_. I was taking a longer route to mull over this curiosity a bit more, but tell me what had you laughing and perhaps we after that we can exchange theories on the way."

They'll be entering the Great Hall together. _Together_. He isn't entirely sure how he feels about that. But at least he knows Theo will be wearing a shite-eating grin for the duration of the week.

_Ah well…_

"I was just thinking the irony that one of Perry Masters' hands vanished in my class and has yet to rematerialize. At least, that was the case according to Theo's patronus as of an hour ago."

Hermione's eyes glitter as her mouth opens… But she seems to think better of it and shakes her head instead. "The woes of being a woman, I suppose." Her words send a tickle down the length of his spine and he recalls the pretty pink blush in her cheeks when she saw who she'd bumped into… "It's curious that none of the spells I tried reversed the effects. I suspect some sort of a potion, but that's mere conjecture on my part, and if the effects all wear off tonight, I've no real way of testing that."

"If they don't, we should see about involving Theo for an antidote," Draco offers. "I'm not sure what Professor McGonagall told you, but the potion professor has been the one who keeps the hospital wing fully stocked; I'm sure he'll be happy to assist in anything extra."

"Awfully generous of you to volunteer his time like that," she answers with a giggle that ties his stomach in three separate knots. She folds the parchment in her hands and slips it in a pocket of her robes. "I'm sure his time is well spoken for between the beginning of the school year and a pregnant wife, so I'll probably try experimenting for myself should the need arise."

Draco's mouth purses of its own accord… "You know about Daphne?" Had Theo caught her alone first? Salazar, had he said anything by way of introduction for Draco, or—?

"She's been throwing up at least once an hour every hour for the last two months at St. Mungo's and she switched to a larger size robe two weeks ago, even though there's still hardly any baby bump to speak of." His mind is reeling as she tosses him a confused expression. "Is it supposed to be a secret?"

"I… I don't know at this point," he admits, still feeling as though a snitch has been snagged from under his nose. "They haven't announced anything in the papers, and I know they've asked her parents to hold off with parties and such until the third trimester…"

"Ah, then I'll refrain from saying mentioning it to anyone else."

Silence settles over them as they begin their descent down two flights of stairs, their shoes echoing off the stone steps. He can't explain the knotting and twisting of his insides still, and for the second (or third, or fourth) time that day, he speaks without being fully conscious of the words that slip out, inquiring how she knew about Daphne in a tone that sounds more like a strangled demand.

He concludes she's the kindest and most patient witch alive, save for his mother, because the smile she first answers with is soft and filled with understanding. "I spent July and August shadowing all the various departments at St. Mungo's. Daphne's not head of her department, but it's only a matter of time, if she wants the job someday, that is."

"Oh." Grey fog lingers still, keeping him from drawing any sort of conclusion.

"I presume you can keep secrets, yes?" Hermione's voice is low as they round the corner of a landing and continue down. She sees him nod and says, "It's all in the beginning stages of planning and I can't do much more with it until Professor McGonagall returns, but she hired me with the intent of establishing some form of pre-Healer training in cooperation with St. Mungo's. Or, at the very least some interning and shadowing for preparation before entering into Healer training. It can offer some valuable insight or maybe help them decide if it's the path they want to pursue before fully committing."

"Fantastic." He didn't wince that time; he truly meant that. "It's so fantastic I can't believe it's taken so long to start something like this."

"I know right?" They come to the end of the of the stairs and began down bright corridor, maintaining an unhurried pace as students scurry by and dart around. "Actually, if I had to guess, I believe she got the idea from your dueling club."

His eyebrows shoot into his hairline. "Sorry, you what?"

"Well, yes." She nods. "Harry told me that Robards has been so impressed by the new recruits coming their way in the last few years. They're poised, patient, prepared, all have a steady hand, light on their feet and can plan a few steps ahead. Professor McGonagall informed me you head up a dueling club, and I can only imagine that such extra hands-on experience has every bit to do with the quality of Auror applicants Hogwarts is graduating."

Stunned. Speechless. Chuffed. Elated.

His thoughts are caught up in some corybantic dance and he finds he's unable to respond.

But a student stops him for a question as they come to the doors of the Great Hall, and it's with great reluctance he pauses and allows Hermione to continue to the professor's table before him.

Or maybe there's a hint of relief in the midst of his emotions, too.

* * *

Her first week passes by at an alarming rate and Hermione's all too eager to have the weekend when it arrives.

The week felt longer, because it technically _was_. This first week was one of those rare times that the first day of September fell on a Friday, and so the first day of school is Saturday. Which means everyone is tired and slightly irritable as it is coming to the blessed weekend after seven straight days of classes.

The pranking hasn't helped either. Random appendages and bits of hair continue vanishing throughout the week, and it's no longer confined to the house of Ravenclaw. To make matters worse, just as something reappears, something new vanishes.

Hermione discusses this at length with Draco and Theo all week. They theorize and debate. Flitwick makes an announcement on Tuesday that this prank has run its course and is no longer humorous.

Fingers, arm, eyebrows, single lips, and entire legs vanish from sight on Wednesday.

Neville chuckles and goes about his day, seemingly unaffected, if not slightly cheerful at the unexpectedness of it all.

Brocklehurst finds it completely distracting and complains it will take at least an extra week to catch up to her lesson plans—making the whole affair almost worth it in Hermione's opinion.

Hermione concludes along with Draco and Theo this must be the work of a potion. It's likely being slipped to the targets at mealtimes, but none of the attempted antidotes seem to have lasting effects. Or, perhaps it's that more of this mystery potion has been consumed, negating the effects of the antidote…

Hermione reaches for the plain white teacup at her desk, caught up in the curls in the rising steam before she blows and sips. Earl Grey with one lump of sugar. Perfection.

She slept in and opted to have breakfast in her room this morning; she finds herself quite torn over hoping that will merit a surprise visit from _Draco_ to check if she's eaten, or that he'll think nothing of it and let it go.

 _Draco_. _Draco. Draco._

She repeats the name and lets it roll around her mind. She plays with each syllable, and mulls over the origin of the name itself… She catches herself thinking of grey eyes and neatly trimmed blond locks. She muses they are baby-fine, and it'd be as running fingers through threads of silk… If one had the opportunity to experience both to compare, that is…

She rests the teacup in her hands as golden sunlight and puffy clouds through the window catch her eye. The sky is a perfect royal blue, not dissimilar to the underlying blue in Draco's eyes… Beneath layer after layer of grey…

She clears her throat, blinking back down to the parchments unrolled on her desk. There must be something about returning to school to be caught up in such juvenile behaviour. Because wandering thoughts like these are reminiscent of her blushing days of youth when she counted the number of times she'd felt Ron's gaze resting on her and when their eyes would meet from across the room.

Ten counts of eyes meeting across the Great Hall, five times randomly in a corridor, and six, maybe _seven_ , times she thinks she's felt his gaze resting on her. Because apparently, she's keeping track of inconsequential things like that again.

She huffs and sets her teacup down at the corner of her desk with more force than she means to, but this is bordering on the fringes of the ridiculous.

After all, It's not as if she hasn't dated in the last eight years. She _has._

But nothing that lasted long.

They've all been either muggle, or had only _heard_ of the Second Wizarding War in Britain. There'd been no substance; nothing connecting to make the fuzzy undefined evolve into something with lasting definition.

Harry likes to point _that_ out whenever the topic of relationships comes up.

It's enough to have her huffing again as she snatches up her self-inking quill. Hermione's no idiot; she's seen the pattern. She expects and is unsurprised when then inevitable end of these occasional dalliances occurs.

And it is a choice of her own design that she declines to dwell on or analyse the aforementioned pattern.

But now…

She sighs, laying her quill down and pinches the bridge of her nose.

 _Godric._ This inexplicable and growing attraction she's experiencing towards one silver-eyed former-Slytherin who's now her coworker is making her wonder if she _should_ make time for such self-examinations in the not-too-distant future.

Perhaps it would even be worthwhile to owl Harry or Luna. Or pos—

"Miss Granger?"

"Hermione?"

Harmonising calls beckon her, saving her from her momentary soul searching and she slips out from her desk, making to her open office door.

Draco is halfway into the room, a student's arm slung about his shoulders and neck. The young wizard's face is pulled in lines of silent pain.

For all of two seconds she's transported. She hears sobs, wails, and cries. She smells dust and smoke. She sees crumbled walls with gaping holes. There's a metallic tang on her tongue…

But she blinks and draws a sharp breath and powers herself forward. Straight for the student and professor.

"What happened?"

Draco's mouth opens, but the student beats him to the explanation: "Kensington mucked up the spell."

"Or someone neglected to have a proper shield in place before having a go at him…" Draco's counter is surprisingly accurate for what Hermione's imagination has conjured at the thought of Draco teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts.

What she hasn't considered is the layer of genuine care draping around his words.

She motions to an empty bed, mentally wincing over what's truly her least favourite part of being a Healer: when the white, wrinkle-free sheets of the bed become dirty and wrinkled. Because, for as much as her mind reasons with her to keep such things in perspective, it really does something to her to see dirty shoes make contact with crisp, white sheets.

"What was he hit with?" She addresses the professor now; the student's face screws and twists as Draco situates him.

Draco grimaces now. "Not entirely sure—sixth and seventh years were to practice non-verbal spells. Kensington has a knack for blending spells; whatever he hit Conners here with rebounded and knocked him out cold."

" _What?"_ Hermione's eyes fly to Draco…

Who shrugs a shoulder in response. "He's fine and breathing. Theo ran an initial diagnostic spell and there are no internal damages. I wanted to get Conners up to you first."

"Right." Hermione whips out her wand and begins her series of diagnostic spells over the young wizard, forcing her face to remain neutral. They look younger all the time, this upcoming generation. And this one has untamable raven-coloured locks that are too reminiscent of Harry…

Various colours flash and glow; Draco's face fixed on the youth all the while.

"The good news is," she begins when the colours cease from the end of her wand, "it's nothing that a dose-and-a-half of Skele-Gro won't cure." Two sets of eyes jump to her and she offers that universal-reassuring-Healer smile. "Your ribs have all sustained fractures, your right femur is completely broken and surprisingly enough, all the bones of your left foot have vanished as well." She blinks between the two of them. "How in the name of Merlin did you make it up here as you did?"

"Temporary numbing spell and weightless charm," the youth answers, voice tight, crinkles deepening around his eyes. "But… the effects have mostly worn off now; Professor Malfoy didn't want to cast anything that would interfere with your assessment, Miss Granger."

It's useless to fight off the genuine warmth now flooding her veins now, and she extends her hand to gently pat her new patient's head. "I'll ask Professor Malfoy to see you get a ribbon of fortitude, but only if you swallow every last drop of this potion the first time and promise to not spit any out on my clothes."

"Merlin, Miss Granger!"

The young wizard's eyes fly open and he attempts to sit upright, but winces and groans, falling deeper into the pillows as Hermione prepares to cast any immediate necessary spells. Draco's eyes seem to do a very poor job of hiding a mischievous (or nefarious) glint.

Conners drags several breaths in-and-out before he makes eye contact with Hermione again. "I'm not some ruddy first year, ma'am," he heaves out. "I'm sixteen and I'm going to be an Auror or a dragon tamer."

"Oh, ho, _ho_ …" Hermione winks before she shuffles to the cabinet for the large skeleton shaped bottle. "You're made of tough stuff, then?" She conjures a goblet and starts to pour, alternating between waving at the smoke and pouring the potion to the precise amount necessary.

"Yep," Conners manages as she is once again at his bedside. Even from a single syllable, she can hear the strain in his voice. The student opens an eye to Hermione. "If you wouldn't mind, Miss Granger—" (strained inhale) "—I'd appreciate it if you'd get—" (huffing exhale) "—Professor Malfoy to make that ribbon—" (shallow gasp) "—look like a proper medal."

Draco moves to stand beside his student, scooting him a bit more upright and adjusting the pillows for ease of swallowing. Conners winces, but does not groan again as he looses a heavy exhale. "A proper medal would impress Lisa Jenkins, and I'm keen for her…" He trails off, sinking down into the pillows.

"I'll see what I can do," Hermione assures him, voice low and soothing. She gives Draco the goblet and mouths that she's going to fetch a sleeping draft and pain potion next. It takes no more that a minute for her to obtain and ready the vials with their proper doses. "Here we are Conners," she says, laying a hand on the youth's shoulder. "You'll take the Skele-Gro first, which, I'll remind you, is going to burn on the way down and tastes more like what I'd imagine fermented pumpkin and seaweed water tastes like."

Draco rolls his eyes at her, mouthing something that looks like, _Very comforting_ , but she can't really be sure. "Here you are, Conners." He proffers the goblet and Conners accepts, downing the vile brew in one massive gulp.

The boy's eyes water and burn and he coughs several times. Hermione adjusts the vials in her hands to conjure a smaller glass with her wand, while Draco takes the initiative and fills it with a soft ' _Aguamenti'_.

No more than two minutes later, the water glass and both potion glasses are drained and Conners is snoring softly, his head laying in such a way that will cause a great deal of pain in the neck if left alone. Hermione floats the empty glass and vials to the bedside table and adjusts the youth's posture and pillows, shaking her head as she notices the youth's hair again.

"Seem familiar to you?"

Hermione glances up, meeting the crooked smile of Draco. "Just a bit. I know that messy hair is not limited to Gryffindors, but, something about him makes me wonder what Harry would have or could have been like if he'd had the chance to grow up without a war."

Draco rolls his eyes again, but there's a softness in those shades of grey. "I'm going to check on Kensington and I'll be back shortly either with him or afternoon tea. If the second student, please note the tea will only be delayed until he's seen to and situated. Alright?"

She tries to catch that smile before it spreads and climbs up her face. She really does. "Alright," she answers, and decides that may have been a wasted effort on her part.

* * *

In the end, Kensington comes back to the hospital wing with Draco, along with a girl with blonde curls and green eyes that Draco introduces as Lisa Jenkins. Hermione grins and assures the students that their friend will be fully healed by tomorrow; rest is all that is required for now.

The girl seems especially distraught when told to leave the sleeping patient's side, but Hermione is insistent they go about their Saturday afternoon. The fact that she's wondering if tea with _Draco_ will still happen has nothing to do with it.

She swallows as the wizard waltzes to her open office door, tossing her a look over his shoulder. She nods and makes to follow after him.

 _Nothing at all_ , she repeats to herself as she conjures a table near the extra chair Draco is now seated at. She pulls her desk chair out while Draco summons one of the elves and asks for the tea he requested earlier. The pot, cups and assorted teas appear, along with a platter of sandwich quarters and shortbread biscuits.

Her heart lurches as he thanks the elf, and she almost wants to delve into that, but decides that could be a topic saved for another day. It's enough he wants to have tea with _her_ … And that she's noticed him sitting near and conversing with Hagrid on numerous occasions.

It is that observation she makes mention of out loud, and could nearly kick herself, but Draco's eyes stop her mind from spiralling. He's kind and humorous about it. He launches into a series of stories of how Hagrid and he teamed up a class or two Draco's first year teaching to tell how to be on the ready and defense against hostile magical creatures.

They talk of the prank series next before venturing back into stories of last several years. It could have been five hours; it could have been five minutes. Hermione has lost track of time. Conners sleeps still and no one else has ventured into the wing since Draco entered. She could continue in this blissful state until the end of time, but it is clearly not meant to be…

The subject drifts into the topic of their friend's weddings and here is where Hermione's mind and heart begin to withdraw… She tries to tap down on it, she tries to keep herself from saying anything aloud that could ruin this…

She fails miserably.

"I don't remember seeing you at Ginny's wedding," she says, brows knitting together.

"Because I was in France at the time with my students for a dueling tournament." He polishes off another sandwich quarter, wiping his mouth and hands with a napkin after. "I was best man at Theo's. Goyle's I'd contemplated going to for for Crabbe's sake more than anything, but they announced it was to be a smaller ceremony and I ended up being on the continent with Mother, Andromeda and Teddy anyways."

"Pansy?" She draws her lips inward, wishing she could simply _shut it_.

Her record of wedding attendance is hardly perfection after all.

Draco gives light chuckle that may have been a scoff. "Wouldn't have been caught dead there. She married that sloth-faced Warrington two years after Hogwarts. Mother returned home complaining the venue had been bathed in pansies of every colour and I was lucky to have missed it."

Hermione's brows furrow even more before she can stop them. It's hypocritical of her to mention a pattern.

It is.

_It is._

"What?"

She sighs. It's also unfortunate that Draco catches this subtle movement and feels compelled to make an inquiry.

"It's nothing," she tries, but that only seems to make the situation worse, as there is now a definite frown pulling down at the corners of his mouth. It makes her think of a bow taking aim… "It seems a significant number of weddings you've missed when considering the number of Slytherins in our class. That's all."

He sits across from her, eyes unblinking for what seems an eternity. There's not a twitch, furrow, crease or wrinkle about his perfect, chiseled face to warn her when the arrow is released. "Funny you should be the one making the observation."

It's all he says, but it's enough. The arrow strikes true; he knows it as well as her.

A chill settles over the room and he drops her gaze while rising from his seat. "If you'll excuse me…" he says while making for the door, not looking back to her as he checks once more on his student and exits the hospital wing, robes billowing and Hermione wishing (not for the first time) she still had a Time-Turner in her possession.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The response to last chapter and the messages people have sent with their theories on who's behind the pranking has been delightful and encouraging! I am thankful for every last one of you readers! And thank you to all who've favorited, followed, and left a review! You breathe life into my sails.
> 
> infinite gratitude to alphas LadyKenz347 and niffizzle. Beta gratitude to CourtingInsanity. These ladies are incredible. All remaining errors are my own.
> 
> I own no part of the Harry Potter franchise.

* * *

Hermione doesn't sleep Saturday night, and it has nothing to do with the fact she decides to sleep on a makeshift cot in her office to be nearby in case young Conners wakes in any pain.

He doesn't.

Hermione thinks she hears something a few hours before dawn and looks out her office door to find a familiar blonde head now resting the crook of her arm on the side of the boy's bed. Hermione considers conjuring a blanket for the girl, but there's something tender in the girl's sacrifice.

It's the most she's able to do for this young wizard, whatever he means to her and she to him, and Hermione decides to let them be.

She returns to bed thinking how irritating it is to be shown up by an adolescent.

* * *

She knows she should take the time to apologise.

She _knows_ she should.

She hadn't meant to point out something so personal—especially since he equally _hadn't_ pointed out anything less true. She'd come back for Ginny's wedding, but that was it. She'd made excuses for George's, Ron's, and even Charlie's. Seamus bought a pub and flat with his witch and Hermione had sent her regrets to that celebration.

Neville married Hannah. She didn't attend.

Dean's invitation had likely been obligatory by that point, because they all knew her answer would be the same.

Harry's eyes would glisten with that familiar sadness when she came for his birthday and Christmas. And any other randomly occurring visit.

She sighs down into a cuppa, reflecting over her young adult life. She attempts to soothe her conscience again by pointing out the majority of said weddings and events occurred while she was in Australia.

When she was still at her lowest. When she had immersed herself fully in her research.

But, she knows deep down it's only a lie. If that had been it, she would have made time for all of the other milestones when she lived in America, not just Ginny's.

Steam rises in hypnotic curls, one dissipating as another appears. There's no room for lying to herself in this new chapter.

She confesses her past avoidances aloud in her empty office, one-by-one, her heart inexplicably lighter with every admittance.

And when she's done, she practises her apology to one grey-eyed Draco Malfoy, determined to find him the next available opportunity.

* * *

Said opportunity never comes.

Hermione is grumpy and catches herself muttering and grousing to herself off and on all day over the next week.

The vanishing body parts continue, and they seem to have drawn some form of immunity to the antidotes Nott continues to bring her. He confirms with her there is no rhyme or reason to the students, thus making it impossible to determine if it's being slipped into drinks at mealtimes or if this is now some clever twist of a spell that has been passed around the student body.

The first years have taken this especially hard, even the ones with older siblings, and Hermione finds herself caught up in a never-ending cycle of sniffling young girls and young boys putting on brave faces coming and going from the hospital wing.

Nott takes his frustrations out on his fifth, sixth and seventh year classes, and Hermione is called upon to deal with the fallout several minor burns, partial animal transformations, one case of a frozen hand and another case of endlessly growing fingernails.

There also appears to be a revolving door of students visiting the hospital wing due to the hazards of the second week in Defence Against the Dark Arts, but the professor never appears with the students. It's strange that her heart sinks every time he _doesn't_ cross the threshold into her domain; positively silly, if she sits to think about it. She needs only to apologise and explain somehow—that's all this is about...

She's certainly _not_ avoiding him as she begins to find herself missing breakfast and requesting her lunches appear in her office this week. She either forgets about dinner as well or eats in her office again. She examines herself to detect the clenching in her gut as she repeats to herself she's not avoiding Draco or the Great Hall, but finds it's not there, which is a relief.

And unnerving; which means it's a real possibility she truly wishes she _could_ see him…

She can't help but feel the sting that perhaps he has little-to-no desire to see her.

* * *

"You're sure it's alright?"

Nott groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "For the last time, Granger, _yes_. I trust you not to explode my lab or leave it in a state of disarray for me to clean up tomorrow morning before classes."

Hermione chews on her lower lip as her head nods in slow consideration. "Thank you," she says at last, running through a mental check-list of her own ingredients she could bring with her down to the lab tonight.

"Is there any particular reason you're making it your personal mission to fight back in this latest offensive play in the prank war?"

"It's _not_ fighting back," she hisses. "We are adults and have no reason to stoop to their level. I'm simply planning ahead and testing a new antidote idea."

Nott snorts like he doesn't believe her. "In this continuing war, which now includes hair being glamoured to any colour imaginable, that does _not_ succumb to any counter-spell Flitwick, Draco and I have thrown at it, _you're_ going to brew a potential counter potion?"

She sets her jaw. "Yes."

* * *

It's the fourth night in a row Draco can't sleep and he throws off his blanket in a frustrated flourish, snatching at his wand and summoning a pair of socks.

"You're being bloody ridiculous," he grouses to himself. " _She's_ the one who started this with her judging and observations. And she's really no room to talk!" He yanks on a plain undershirt and grabs the black cloak he'd left hanging over one of his bedroom chairs earlier.

He looks a ridiculous combination at the moment: flannel pajama bottoms, thin, white cotton shirt, cloak, socks and bedroom slippers. But he can't be bothered to care as trades the warmth of his room for the nipping cool air of the dungeon, pulling his quarters door closed behind him.

None of the students have discovered where his room is, and he's quite proud of that accomplishment, especially when considering how close he is to the Slytherin common room entrance. Professor McGonagall had first offered it to him as a means of assisting Slughorn keep an eye of the older Slytherins, but Draco knows he'd never be able to sleep anywhere else at Hogwarts.

Sleep finds ways of eluding him still even here; though, this time it's not his fault.

It's _not_.

Those words are his mantra this week. He repeats it for every meal that Hermione doesn't darken the threshold of the Great Hall. He repeats it when he's alone in his bed and his mother's words from breakfast back in early June descend and attack.

He's spoken them aloud as he's walked up and down the dungeon for hours this week. There's a reason the wizarding world of Britain has read no more than two articles a year in this last near decade since the war, and it has everything to do with the fact that there's precious little information to be had.

It's not his fault she's yet to come to terms with the fact she's been in hiding, too. _Just like me_ , his voice of reason whispers to him. He ignores that voice as he defaultingly clings to his prickly walls of defense, repeating still, _It's not my fault. It's not my fault_.

" _Godric!_ "

He stops short, ears perked as he catches a subsequent string of curse words… Coming from… "The potions lab?" he quieries himself.

He draws his wand from the pocket of his pajama pants, heart thundering inside his chest. It might just be one of the lead pranksters! He ignores that reasoning voice that reminds him he would have heard said student any other night this week, and creeps to the door.

It's cracked and he can hear a _female_ voice speaking in hushed tones to herself. He casts a non-verbal silencing charm over the door hinges and widens the door. He doesn't immediately see her, but it seems she's reciting a potion recipe to herself.

He slips into the room, looking right, then left…

_Hermione._

Impossibly enough, she's in the classroom, and she's claimed a workspace, cauldron steaming, ingredients and vials all about her area. She appears to be standing on her right foot only with her left foot resting on the inner shin of her right leg.

She's still speaking to herself and hasn't heard him enter. The thundering within his chest rallies and surges; there's a storm raging inside him now, and he considers leaving…

Glass clinks against her work space as vials fall over and roll. She releases another string of curses, snatching at the fallen vials, and he can't leave.

"What are you doing down here?" he finds himself asking.

She doesn't startle or act at all surprised, though. Instead, _he's_ the one who's surprised when her shoulders appear to droop. "I told Nott I'm brewing a possible counter-potion for this new hair colouring charm the students have added to their arsenal…" There's the unmistakable feel of exhausted defeat in her words. "But the truth of the matter is I just couldn't face another night of not sleeping."

The prickles melt and his defensive wall fades to nothing, leaving the gaping hole unguarded, and it's so damn scary as he attempts to saunter up to where she is. He isn't sure how to start this; he's planned nothing. Rehearsed nothing.

His protective mantra vanished with the wall, and he isn't sure what to say...

Hermione turns to face him as he comes to the edge of the table, her eyes a richer shade of brown in the low light of sconces. Her gaze locks to his as her lips part. "I left everything Britain eight years ago and never looked back; even so, I've always sensed this pull or draw back to here…" She pauses, her mouth twisting, teeth catching her bottom lip as she seems to ponder still. "And now that I'm _back_ ," she continues, not clarifying if she meant the school or this country, "it _feels_ like coming home in a way. But to a home that's outgrown me, or maybe I've outgrown it, and I'm having to learn to I fit in all over again."

He nods, placing his hands on the edge of the table, leaning forward. He's not entirely sure where she's going with this, or if he feels this is too much unsolicited information when they hardly know each other…

"It's really awkward," she continues, a slight bob to her throat and completely unaware of his internal debate. "It's uncomfortable and unfamiliar. All these people and places… Everything that should feel safe and comforting feels the exact opposite, too. The whole summer, it felt like surviving one social obligation after another, for as much as everyone meant well. My constant salvation was St. Mungo's. And lunches with Harry—and, _no_." Her eyes narrow and she gives a hard shake of her head for emphasis. "Before you say anything and lest you forget he's engaged to Luna; it's nothing romantic between us. It never has been."

Words tickle in his throat and it's sweet surrender as they slip out: "What is it, then, if you don't mind my asking?" She's quiet and he clears his throat to cover the silence. He lingers and he's worried he may be pushing at boundaries that have yet to be established, but _dammit…_ She started this and he can't back down now. "He seems to be the only part about this country you seem to be consistently happy about. I know he was the Boy-Who-Lived and all, but you always seemed to be above all that hero-worshipping shite."

"Harry was there for me when I lost my parents."

Perhaps he should be surprised how easily that admission came. He chews his tongue and she looks hesitant to continue, her full eyes vulnerable, asking questions for her voice. He coughs and leans over the table. "You don't have to say anything, but if it will help you get some sleep later…"

"Sleep..." She scoffs and tucks several curls behind an ear. "I erased myself from my parent's memories the summer between sixth year and that seventh year I never went back for. I sent them to Australia under different names and with no memories of ever having a Muggle-born witch for a daughter. Ron was grieving with his family and hurt that I wasn't ready to jump into anything serious in the immediate aftermath of the war, and he decided to stay here when it was time for me to leave.

"It was Harry that came with me. It was Harry who stayed with me through two months of therapy with various Healers, but nothing worked. Nothing would undo the damage I'd done. I convinced him to leave me in Australia once I signed up for accelerated tutoring to take the Australian equivalent of N.E.W.T.'s and get into Healer training."

' _Harry stayed.'_ Those words clang in his mind. They can mean a myriad of things and they taunt a sleeping dragon he'd no idea lay dormant within himself…

One look back into Hermione's eyes soothes the coiling reptile, saiting all doubts or idiotic worries.

"I stayed in Australia for four years, studying, researching, and trying to see if there was any way of reversing the effects of my pride and power. I travelled all across Asia and New Zealand chasing down any possible lead, researching them into every last dead end. I moved to America afterwards, devastated. Harry asked me to come back here, but I couldn't. I couldn't face the memories; the people and places. Everything felt a reminder of my greatest failure. Everyone had moved on with their lives here while I was back in the past, if that makes sense…"

He nods because it does. It's like she's playing the song of his life right back to him. She shifts her stance and stirs the cauldron, adding a pinch of something that makes him suspect she's _not_ brewing for some prank anti-serum.

"Saving your parent's lives isn't a failure, though." He _needs_ to know that she _knows_ this by now. "There's no way of knowing what could have and would have happened had you not intervened."

"I know." The clarity in her vision tells him she truly does. "It's taken the greater part of the last four years away from them to appease my guilt, but I still haven't been able to face my old house or other meaningful spots. Soon, though. I think I'll be ready soon."

"You've been back over the years, though, right?" Maybe he should be changing the subject to something lighter, something with less significance... But she's revealed layers of her soul to him; it's so beautifully vulnerable, he can't look away...

"Oh, sure." She shrugs. "Christmas and Harry's birthday. The odd occasion here and there. But _weddings_ meant bringing a date and answering questions like if he was someone _special_. Or how he compared to the one I'd brought to the last wedding. Then there was the option of attending by myself and answering more questions, still. It was easier, but I couldn't bring myself to say no to Ginny when she asked me to be in her wedding."

"That sounds incredibly familiar," Draco inserts, offering a crooked smile in immediate response to her quirked eyebrows. "The dilemma with attending weddings, that is. Pansy's was easy enough not to attend, but I was best man in Theo's. And at Theo's wedding, I was reintroduced to Daphne's younger sister, Astoria."

" _Ah…_ " Hermione's waggles her eyebrows at him, but not before he thinks he sees a flash ignite in the witch's eyes.

He straightens up, leaving his hands on the edge of the table to drum softly over the aged wood. "It ended up not being anything much. She lived in Paris, and only came back to town two handfuls of times, really. We came to the mutual conclusion it was time to end things after six months." His fingers increase the tempo, drumming louder as he continues. "We both knew it was empty. I had my job here, but I needed to find more things about the school and the students to make me feel less empty."

He draws a sharp breath. He doesn't want to say more, but he _does_. There's this inexplicable need to lay himself bare before her.

He parts his lips, but she blurts out: "I'm sorry!" She licks her lips once. "I had no right to insinuate that—"

"You weren't," he cuts-in shaking his head. "I shouldn't have—"

"But you didn't know, and I sort of was—"

"It's not as though you didn't have a p—"

"But still, Draco." She pauses. As if waiting for him to interject another thought.

He doesn't, though. Everything stills as the sound of his name rolling so easily, so _freely_ , off her lips collides with his mind and ears.

It seems he's missed that this week.

After only a week.

_Salazar._

"There's nothing for you to apologise for, Hermione," he says, realising he means it with all sincerity. "It appears that we've both been handling the past in our own different, yet not unsimilar, ways."

Theo is going to know. Somehow. He'll bloody _know_ and will be an absolute horror over this incident.

"Seems like it." Hermione's lips curve into a delicate smile and Theo can kiss Draco's arse; Draco doesn't care how much grief the sodding prick gives him over tonight. "I haven't been avoiding you at meal times," the witch offers, voice soft and sweet. Like his favourite ice cream. "It's been hectic with all that's been happening and all these students coming from a botched potions lab or failed defense of something in their Defense class..."

He's about to apologise again until he catches hints of a smirk chasing across her face. He moves within her space and scent and nudges her shoulder instead, and they come to the unspoken conclusion to focus their efforts on the obvious task before them. Together, _together_ , he can't help by marvel, they begin to label the empty vials.

He is correct when he teasingly accuses her of misleading Theo for use of the potions lab. She laughs it off, saying she'll need a fully stocked cabinet of Pepper-Up potion soon enough.

It's the nicest night Draco experiences in a very long time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I continue to be overwhelmed with the kind response over this story. Thank you all so much. Alpha gratitude to LadyKenz347 and niffizzle. Beta love and adoration to CourtingInsanity. Seriously, if you haven't read their writings, you really should... NOW!
> 
> All remaining errors are my own.
> 
> I own no part of the Harry Potter franchise.

* * *

"Ah ha!"

"What, Draco?" Her words are clipped. She doesn't turn. She doesn't pause. She keeps walking.

He knows she's frustrated, but not at him.

Perhaps is a bit more akin to embarrassment... It makes him grin for an absurd reason.

"The universe now knows what it missed out on for not giving you red hair." His strides lengthen and he's able to catch her in three-and-a-half seconds. The muscles in her cheek twitch but she still doesn't acknowledge him there. He grins all the more, floating a finger out… "Merlin, it really looks—"

"Do _not_ touch my hair." Hermione's hand snatches his wrist faster than he anticipates. Her eyes are set in thin slits, but he can still see the flashes of gold. " _This_ isn't even red; it's some horrible hybrid of rose red and tiger orange, with a splash of sunflower yellow because it's not already unique enough as it is!"

He gives into an easy chuckle and nudges her shoulder before walking onward. It's been comfortable since the weekend. She's still been too busy to make it to most lunches and dinners, but sometimes she comes to breakfast. Yesterday he had lunch with her in her office.

Until the second year Dobson twins from Hufflepuff rushed in. One had fallen from her broom while practicing for the Hufflepuff Quidditch trials and the other's arm had strangely been in a great deal of pain, though she'd apparently not suffered any injuries.

Hermione had commented after the two girls had been patched up and sent on their way that it was refreshing to fix something for a change.

She sniffs and he catches her shaking her head from the corner of his eye. "Why aren't you more upset about _your_ hair colour? I'd have thought you'd have Flitwick threatening every last student with detention until the end of the school year because of your green hair."

" _Au contraire_ , Hermione. This is not 'green'." He runs a hand through his neat and otherwise pristine hair. " _This_ is chartreuse."

A lone brow lifts at him, suggesting she fails to grasp the difference and he nudges her again, winking.

Just because.

"Chartreuse lies between yellow and green on the broad spectrum of colours, and to have cast this specific colour shows creativity, cleverness and a commanding grasp of the charm used."

She appears to fight a smile, attempting to bury it under pursed lips. "So your conclusion is that the hair colouring is a spell, then?"

"Yes." He slips his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "The fact that the staff are now being affected by this was the giveaway. Peeves has been cornered and he denies involvement in any way. We saw it was only the students plagued with bouts of invisibility, and the fact that the attempted antidotes sometimes worked, though not for very long, means we're dealing with potions with that. There could possibly even several variations of a single recipe. But this hair colouring is school-wide and I'm actually feeling a bit impressed with it."

Hermione shakes her head, but doesn't disagree with anything. Satisfaction bubbles and froths in his chest, and he may just be feeling quite chuffed all over again.

"D'you have any ideas of who's behind all this?"

"Ravenclaws. It all started at their table. I've kept my sixth and seventh years behind after classes twice now to give them a stern talking to, but so far no one has broken or betrayed anyone."

She makes a sound between a hum and a snort.

"What?" He's trying not frown.

"Nothing," she says, but her cheeks are twitching again.

The frown is inevitable. " _What?_ "

"It's nothing, Draco."

"Tell. Me."

"Alright." Her eyes drag down and up the length of him and he's glad for all his layers of clothing so she can't see the chills rolling over his skin. "Did you use that deep, intimidating voice you would save for when you were really furious with Harry?"

His jaw drops. He sputters. "I did not… There was no… My voice would not _change_ when angry with _Potter_!"

She laughs and it's sweet and musical and sends the bubbles inside him to a boiling frenzy. "Whatever you say then." She nudges him just as they come to the doors of the Great Hall.

And he _would_ argue his point more, if not for the now staring, whispering and pointing students. He's also confident Theo is sharpening his metaphorical claws for digging and prodding in a later-on discussion that is also inevitable.

* * *

"What on earth are you doing back there, Luna?"

"You'll see."

Hermione's friend offers no further explanation as to the pulling and tugging within her long loose curls, which Hermione considers reason enough to be concerned, but, she drops the subject for now. The colouring charm finally wore off and Hermione's hair is back to its bland shade of brown. It's also a Sunday and Flitwick granted her request for the afternoon away from the school grounds. Hermione suspects he'd been informed about a 'surprise party' he should let Hermione go for.

Which explains why Hermione is sitting in the backyard of Luna's childhood home, where they are 'reading' and 'just being' until time for the 'surprise party'.

What isn't easily explained is what Luna is trying to do with her hair… And Hermione is trying to be a compliant and gracious friend, so, deciding to focus on something else, she says, "You were writing in a Muggle notebook with a Muggle pen just a bit ago."

Some foreign object sinks into Hermione Hermione's curls and she fights the urge to flinch as Luna hums. "Are you asking me a question?"

"I suppose." Hermione chuckles, giving a slight lift to her shoulder. "It's just not the most common thing one sees Purebloods carrying around, but I shouldn't be surprised, all the years you've been with Harry."

"Well reasoned," her outdoor companion answers. There's a pause, and then she speaks again, lower, as if to herself: "Too large. Something smaller I think…"

Again, Hermione stops herself from protesting, even _asking_ ; part of that new chapter in life and all that. And Luna had just asked something incredibly thoughtful of her less than ten minutes ago; this really is the least she can do. "What enchantments do you place over your yard to keep everything so green still?"

"We don't use any. The garden gnomes are happy and it's only mid-September. You've been away long enough to remember it doesn't brown and grey until just before the snow comes."

Hermione bites down on the inside of her cheek to hold back a retort. Somehow she feels Luna didn't mean that as anything more than simple observation. "True," she finds herself murmuring. "Are you documenting anything specific for a new Herbology book?"

"I have been, but that's not what this journal is for. Today seemed like a good day for poetry."

 _Intriguing._ "Oh?"

"Mhm… Oh! I like the look of that…" A feather-light weight settles in Hermione's hair while Luna continues. "You probably noticed my book was a collection of poems by William Blake, I'm sure you've read it."

Hermione actually hasn't, she finds poetry to be too random and metaphorical, and she wishes the authors would get to the bloody point.

None of this she tells Luna, though.

"Harry has been wanting to expand our library," Luna adds. "The bits and things he's started journaling over the past few years have inspired him to make more time for books."

"That explains why he's been asking me for book recommendations off-and-on the last couple of years." A smile tugs at the corners of Hermione's lips. "I had presumed that was largely due to your influence, though."

"It's a team effort," Luna states. "I don't think he would have been so open to including poetry in the library if I hadn't stumbled across a collection in Malfoy Manor earlier this year. It was a bit of an odd find, not something I expected when I read the title. But Narcissa let me borrow it and I've been insatiable in my quest for more poetry since."

Hermione chews her tongue as her friend trails off, seemingly focusing on her handiwork with Hermione's hair. It's true that Draco has proven himself changed and different from the worldview he was raised in, but that Mrs. Malfoy should have something Muggle in this highly praised library… And when had Luna cultivated such a relationship with Mrs. Malfoy that she not only openly visits the manor, but borrows books and is on a first name basis with the Malfoy matriarch?

"It's possible I may have an infestation of wrackspurts, Luna."

"I'm sure it is," the witch responds without hesitation, "but what makes you think so now?"

"I'm having a hard time making sense of everything you just said." There. Honesty without sounding a complete prejudiced arse.

Luna laughs. It's that very specific, very _defining,_ very Luna-airy laugh that still manages to grate on Hermione's nerves . "You've been away for too long, Hermione. Mrs. Malfoy has long since apologised to Father and myself for the role her family and home played in my captivity during the war. I'm constantly on the search for rare and lesser known resources in all my research, and as I'm no longer a student, I can't just be seen about the library of Hogwarts all the time, can I?"

The logic is sound, but… Hermione frowns. "Apologies, but I'm still working on making sense of the fact you found a _muggle_ poetry book in the _Malfoy_ library."

"Well, of course it was Muggle poetry." It's a statement. A factual statement that should have been completely obvious. "Wizarding Britain doesn't have any published poets to boast of, which is quite a shame. I'll have to broaden my search to see if I can find some wizarding poetry from other countries, but the book Mrs. Malfoy loaned me was a gift from Andromeda, I was told."

 _Ah._ "That makes sense, I suppose." Hermione nibbles on her lower lip as more near-weightless items sink into her mass of curls, even if full understanding has yet to sink in. Her eyes dart to the capped pen lying over the notebook in the grass. "What sort of poetry do you write, then?" Luna is not likely to say anything more clarifying on their previous topic.

"I'm not sure." There's a pause and Hermione turns around to find Luna's blue eyes sparkling over an honest smile. "They're not sonnets, and I don't particularly follow a structural pattern. I don't rhyme all that much, either. I don't feel I know enough about the genre itself to appropriately categorise them."

A brow quirks and Hermione can't help but tease a little. "Well then how can you know what words to use if you're not following a pattern?"

"Oh, quite simple, actually. The words skip about in my head while I play around with how certain ones sounds at a specific part, and then the right one just _fits._ " The clear emphasis she gives to the last word makes Hermione feel she ought to understand…

Which she does _not_. "And, how do you decide 'it fits'?"

"The same way you do with your all your essays and research publications," Luna states, again, as if that's the only logical conclusion. "You have an idea of what you're trying to convey, you write it out, and then edit a bit later on. I do the same, though far less editing than you do, I'm sure. I've no ambitions for publishing anything that goes in my poetry notebook. It's more been for fun and a means of challenging myself."

A silence falls over the witches after that. Hermione feels there's another metaphor for life or herself in those words; a lump seems determined to lodge itself in her throat. Luna shifts in the grass and alternates between adding and removing things from Hermione's hair and reading a bit from her book.

Luna breaks the silence first. "If you don't mind my saying so, I'm a little surprised you agreed to be in the wedding."

"I think I was equally surprised it was _you_ asking." Hermione doesn't flinch at her own words; it's apparently full speed ahead with honesty these days. "I mean, it's Harry's wedding, too, and I wouldn't have refused either of you anything, but you and I haven't kept up as much I have with Harry, Ginny or Molly."

Luna sits and blinks as an infuriatingly _knowing_ smile dances up her cheeks. "It's been enough. Besides, Harry fills in any necessary information gaps, and I'd prefer to have you standing up there with me over Ronald's wife. I don't have much in common with her."

It's all she can do to keep a straight face, but Luna apparently isn't finished surprising her: "Besides, friends are forever, I think. And you're my friend."

Something in that strikes a chord in Hermione; a note that hums and thrums. As the echoes fade, Hermione can see for the first time just how hollow she's allowed herself to become. How empty all her accomplishments have been without _people_ in her life. Without someone to share it all with.

Genuine tears make tracks down her cheeks. She lets them fall and doesn't attempt to swipe them away. Not yet. "What a lovely thing to hear. Thank you, Luna." She takes several minutes to breathe. The breaths are measured and deep before she's able to contribute to the conversation again. "Is there a specific significance with April, though? A winter wedding lends itself to some truly magical decorating options."

"My parents married in April," Luna answers, soft and a bit solemn. "They married in this very backyard surrounded by hundreds of daffodils. It's been a dream of mine since I was a little girl to one day have the same. And anyways, I'll still be helping Daddy finish and edit his book on obscure runes until February. It just makes more sense to wait."

"I see." Hermione slips on a pair of sunglasses on as the subject is dropped and Luna points her wand at Hermione's curls.

"I've changed my mind; I think something else for the party."

Hermione doesn't allow a resigned sigh to pass her lips. This is part of friendship. Of being here and learning how to make room for people again.

She hears Luna fumble in her bag. "Don't move, and wait just… one… moment…"

_Click!_

Luna gives an approving hum and moves around to face Hermione again. "I think you should keep the photograph; it's not often we're given the chance to see how carefree we can be."

"Thank you." Hermione takes the picture without scrutinizing it. _Yet._

Luna also holds out her book, still open. "Would you mind keeping my place a moment? There's still some time before they're ready for us and I want to take few pictures of those flowers to show Harry."

Hermione accepts the book, placing it behind the photograph, which she promptly rolls her eyes at. There's a haphazard scattering of small daisy-like flowers in her windblown curls and the sunglasses remind her of pictures of her parents in their hippy phase. To complete the effect, the camera itself is one those vintage Muggle types that printed the photograph immediately.

She sets the photo aside to make note of the page number Luna's book lay open to when her eyes take note of the title. The first line underneath seems just as compelling, and she finds herself reading the brief poem in its entirety in a matter of seconds, an ache burning in her chest all the while. She reads it again and again before taking her wand and making a copy of the page; folding it and slipping it into her pocket, along with the photo.

She reads the poem again before Luna comes back to announce it's time for them to leave:

" _Joy and woe are woven fine,_

_A clothing for the soul divine,_

_Under every grief and pine,_

_Runs a joy with silken twine._

_It is right it should be so,_

_We were made for joy and woe,_

_And when this we rightly know,_

_Through the world we safely go."_

* * *

Draco is quite put out with himself, but there's nothing more he can _do_ about it; he's already arrived.

He's made it to the library, and now there's nothing more that can be done except to walk in and have a look around.

If he _happens_ to come across a certain witch while having a casual look about, he will simply state he wanted to look for a particular book on the theory behind a defense spell. And if she's _not_ to be found…

He rakes a hand through his hair and scratches his neck, lips drawing inward as he blinks at the library door.

If Hermione isn't in the library, then he'll have gone an entire day without seeing her, and that shouldn't doom his day into despair. He's gone _years_ without seeing her before this point, and less than twenty-four hours shouldn't cause such stirring in his chest.

 _It shouldn't_.

Some part of him is mocking and laughing as he crosses the threshold, and that inner laugh vaguely reminds him of Theo. Draco gives a low groan; the twat is in his head.

The sardonic laugh continues as he doesn't, doesn't, _doesn't_ see her…

His pace quickens, and he tries to appear suave and in control of himself as a few students give him questioning looks from their books and parchments.

He's made it to the far back corner now, and he thinks he remembers this is where she'd studied often a decade ago…

 _Victory!_ He's brilliant and there's nothing short of triumph coursing through his veins as he saunters up to Hermione's table, smirking at finding her hunched over a large book. "Bit of light reading for a Sunday evening?"

"Felt familiar," she answers, lifting her face to him slowly, her lips bending in a genuine smile, as if she's been waiting for him. "Also, I noticed Marcus and Carrigan sporting different hair colours when I got back; neither could tell me if they recall their hair returning to its original state before the change or not." She drags a hand through her curls and shrugs. "So that means we've no way of knowing if the charm has now been altered to change colours before fading, or if they're were simply hit again as the charm had worn off."

The urge to kiss her tramples over him like a dozen hippogriffs, reducing him to a suffocating pile of crushed lungs and bruised muscles. He's certain he'll break; he'll shatter entirely under the strain of self-restraint. His exhale sounds pained to his own ears as he forces it out, "Interesting observations." He has to swallow. "I'm afraid I hadn't considered that." It's not a lie, he's thought of little else except how to stumble upon her 'accidentally' since she didn't come to lunch.

"Would you like to sit down?" She's waving over an empty seat and he accepts the offer as her fingers drift down and begin to drum against the smooth surface near the table's edge. "How was the last day of your weekend?"

"All right." He tries to sound nonchalant, but worries he's failing miserably. His eyes can't help but flicker all over her delicate and casually dressed form, a foreign warmth washing over him all the while. "Where did you go off to and come back from?"

It's stupid phrasing, but she answers as if it were perfectly normal: "My surprise birthday party at the Burrow."

"It's your birthday?!"

"Tuesday is," she answers, smile dropping somewhat. "Hence the surprise element of the party. And there's the fact that we're all now responsible adults with jobs that don't always fit within normal work hours..."

He cants his head. "You didn't enjoy it." It's somewhere between a question and a statement.

"It's not that." She shrugs, her lips twisting. "It was a lovely time, it really was. Luna asked me to meet her at her Father's house and we spent some time outside reading and such before everything was ready at the Weasley's house."

"But…?"

She doesn't answer right away, and goes through a cycle of opening-then-closing her mouth a few times. She's also squirming in her seat.

"You're uncomfortable," he says, keeping his words soft. "I'm sorry; I shouldn't pry."

"It's not that, it's just…" She gives a long exhale, the rhythm of her fingers quickening. "I don't particularly care for everyone making a fuss over my birthday, that's all. It's not as if it's an accomplishment to be celebrated; I was born, which is no different than everyone else who's ever existed for all of history."

"But—"

"I know." The drumming ceases as she lifts that hand. "I _know_ I made a point to be back for all of Harry's birthdays. I know I'm the first one to celebrate someone else and gift them something that's thoughtful, sentimental and still practical."

His smile is crooked as he slides his right shoe to occupy the space near her right foot. "Anything to do with your parents, you think?"

"Perhaps. I haven't taken the time to dissect it all." He swears that a foot brushes against his before she draws her knee up, pulling her leg close and rests her chin atop said knee. "I've been lucky and the topic of birthdays hasn't come up too often with peers and coworkers, so I haven't paid much attention to it." Her chocolate gaze meets his waiting eyes and she lifts her chin. "I should have invited you to come with me."

He attempts a scoff, but it sounds more as a cough. "I think not." He tries to cover himself with a classic Malfoy arched eyebrow. "I'm sure it was plenty fun without having a former-Death Eater around to kill the mood."

Her leg lowers to the floor and he can _not_ understand the look she's giving him. It's not entirely a smile and it's not inquisitive. There's an openness to it, and when she says, "But that's not how anyone sees you anymore. That's certainly not how I see you, so you would have killed nothing," he genuinely believes her.

He believes her, but doesn't know how to respond. Because kissing her here and now would be insanity.

So, it's perfectly fine when she responds for the both of them. "I'll invite you to the next thing, whatever it is. I found myself looking for you in the crowd, which is silly, as I'm the reason you weren't there to begin with." She shrugs and closes her tome. "I think I'll check this out and finish it in my room."

Words and a working knowledge of how to speak return to his system, and he hears himself offering to walk her back to her quarters. He's quite chuffed when she accepts and he gets lost three times on the way back to his own room afterwards.

But that matters little as he replays one specific thing Hermione had confessed:

 _I found myself looking for you in the crowd_.

* * *

The sun is shining bright and clear Tuesday morning.

She debates going down to the Great Hall as she takes morning inventory of the potion cabinet, making note of what she needs to request Nott to replenish soon. She's almost decided to go venture down and face Hagrid and Neville as she places the list on her office desk when something begins to materialise over her desk.

A crystal vase with three calla lilies, followed by a tray of tea, toast and all the condiments she prefers. She spies an envelope under the teapot and lunges for it.

The note inside is simple, but it makes her blush all the same:

_You better come down for lunch, or I'll be spending the hour looking for you in the crowd. Happy Birthday, Hermione._

_Draco_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Poem credit to William Blake. Because it wouldn't be a mh story without a poem, lol. Hope you enjoyed. Would love to hear your thoughts!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ahem. HeartOfAspen asked for a friend... and I'm uploading a day early ;)  
> I deeply appreciate every comment, follow and favorite. Truly. You all are incredible. 
> 
> My heartfelt gratitude to alphas Ladykenz347 and niffizzle. They were both finalists in the GES FB awards, and you should be reading their words if you aren't already. Beta love to CourtingInsanity, who just killed it in the GES awards! These ladies are gems in this fandom. I'm honored they carve out time for me. 
> 
> All remaining errors are my own and I own no part of the Harry Potter franchise.

* * *

"Professor Draco! _Professor Draco!"_

Draco spins on his heel. "What is it, Matthews?" His insides lurch with all the horrible possibilities racing through his mind.

"You got to come with me, sir!" The lad skids and starts back in the direction he's just come from.

He catches the student in two hasty strides. "And where precisely are we going?"

"We're—" The young wizard comes to a sudden halt, green eyes wide under wild hair. "Merlin, I was coming to get you to see this self-inking quill drawing in the air out on the Quidditch pitch—"

"The _what?"_

Matthews nods. "If that's really what it is. I didn't see it, exactly. Billy told it to me to get someone, and he heard it from Tommy, who's down on the pitch with Gerry and Richard—"

"Come to the point, Matthews." _Salazar_. He understands his godfather's clipped answers and no-nonsense policy more with every passing day.

"Yes, well, I was sent to get you, seeing as how I was already inside…" The boy is heaves a deep breath, leaning forward, hands on hips. "But I passed something that looked odd on the way here, and I think you should see this first."

* * *

September is truly a fickle month weather-wise, and Hogwarts is no exception to the rule. The air clings to the dredges of summer, making the castle unbearably stuffy, sweltering and humid. And whoever it was that invented thick wizarding robes obviously never perspired a day in their life.

Hermione decides to take matters into her own hands today and fight back. Professor McGonagall never stipulated robes must be worn in the hospital ring at all times, and Hermione has no intention of subjecting herself to such conditions all day long.

It's lunchtime, and instead of going to the Great Hall, she's returned to her room for a quick shower and to change into a pastel sundress that's a more appropriate style and colour for summer, she knows, but she doesn't care. The heat is too much and it's doing ridiculous things to her curls, and she'll slip into her extra set of grey robes once she makes it back to the hospital wing.

And _if, if, IF,_ she happens to take the long route back to the hospital wing and happens to catch a glimpse of _Professor Malfoy,_ or let him snag a glimpse of _her,_ before he heads into his class…

Well, she certainly wouldn't find _that_ objectionable.

_And_ , if Draco happens to flirt with her a little more at dinner tonight, because she's not thirteen and quibbling over misinterpreting things; there has been definite flirting at the dinner table the since Tuesday night. What's-her-name Brocklehurst has made two separate attempts to catch her alone for the singular reason of insufferable 'girl talk'; Neville has caught Hermione's eye after dinner two out of the three nights, waggling his brows each time.

Hermione may have blushed, but didn't stay to linger, because Draco had offered to walk her back near her quarters or back up to the hospital wing each time they left the dinner table together.

She catches herself smiling one of those secret, but not-so-secret, ' _I have a crush_ ' smiles that she'll have to do away with before the next Draco sighting happens. So furthermore, she thinks as she glances her small desk clock for the time, because of said smile and dress and mood, if she's now _flouncing_ to her own door as she's exiting her quarters…

Well, she's an adult female in her late-twenties and on the cusp of a promising career.

She'll flounce if she so pleases.

* * *

"You saw _what_?" Draco, frankly, can't believe his ears.

"It's a bloody downpour, Professor! I swear it is! Right in the middle of a corridor."

Draco's trying not to groan as they continue this brisk pace in a direction that feels familiar…

Matthews gasps to catch breath and continues his narration: "It's like when the sky just dumps buckets of rain on you in the middle of something important. But there's no Peeves with large buckets; hell, Professor—"

"Language, Matthews."

A sigh. "Yes, sir. But, there's not a bloody bucket in sight! It's like the ceiling's suddenly decided to drop water, and it's a sodding mess."

It all sounds so illogical and irregular, Draco can hardly fault him such common vulgarities. "And you're sure you haven't seen Peeves?"

"No, sir. No one's seen much of him this month. It's like he misses the Headmistress and would rather cause trouble when she's about."

"I've caught him laughing at hair colours…"

"Oh sure," Matthews agrees. "He's laughed, pointed and teased more than anyone, I reckon. But you know he likes to take ownership when he's the one that's done something."

That's all true enough. Draco tries to keep from frowning and he Matthews leads him around a corner. There's no doubt in his mind where they're going now; not that Matthews knows where Hermione's quarters are.

Draco's brows knit together as they continue their quick pace; he didn't see her at lunch, but that doesn't necessarily mean she's back in her room. Something could have come up and she could easily be in the hospital wing working through the lunch hour—

" _Revelio… Finite!"_

Draco almost skids to a halt; Matthews' eyes blow wide.

A witch continues yelling, " _Finite!_ " and there's the unmistakable sound of liquid pouring over liquid, not wholly dissimilar to a small waterfall...

"Blimey, Professor Malfoy; someone's beat us there!"

The student is about to take off sprinting when Draco snatches hold of his robe. "Get Professor Flitwick, Matthews. Check the Great Hall first and then his Charms classroom."

"What if he's not—?"

"Then grab any other professor you can find."

The young wizard nods, turns on his heel and sprints in the direction they came.

Draco breaks out into a jog now. He can see water collecting and puddling from around the corner… He's almost there…

" _Finite!"_ The witch sounds far from a playing mood...

He sees why as he finds himself splashing in water that almost comes up to the laces of his shoes. He nearly swears himself, but a loud yell rings out over the sound of water-meeting-water.

There's also a thoroughly drenched Hermione Granger in an equally drenched summery-looking frock, standing against the wall, flicking her wand at a long line of floating buckets.

Floating buckets near the ceiling, tipped over, so that they can pour water. As they keep dumping water into the collecting pond that is Hermione's corridor (how in the name of Merlin is it collecting?), he decides there must be some added enchantment to keep the water flowing continuously.

"Don't just stand there!"

He has to focus for one-and-a-half heartbeats before he can properly respond: "What, precisely, do you propose I do?" He's almost yelling to make sure she can hear him, but he concludes she may not know that reasoning and also decides his only option is to get closer.

She seems surprised as he lunges into the flood, water immediately at his ankles and he nearly slips within the first few steps. "I didn't necessarily mean you had to get all wet yourself…" Her cheeks take on a lovely shade of pink, conveniently a perfect match with the dress she's wearing.

"I'm not all wet," he counters, forcing his eyes to focus on her face. Her hair seems to have been pulled back before it was drenched, but there are flyaways and stray curls that are currently clinging to her bare neck… "It's just my shoes, trousers and the bottom half of my robes soon enough. What I'm curious to find out is how _you_ came to be so utterly soaked?"

Her eyes flash and she mutters under her breath a moment or two, giving him all the incentive he needs to nudge her shoulder.

"Seems they're all fixed to spill water at a certain spot." He's drawling and her cheeks brighten once more as her arms fold around her chest.

"I tripped."

He says nothing. He has no appropriate response reserved and at the ready for this sort of situation.

But she seems to misread his silence completely, clearly irritated as she continues, "Well, don't hold back on my account; you can laugh if you must. I wasn't expecting water coming out and it splashed at my floor and I slipped and tumbled in this madness."

She gives a pointed wave about the suspended water buckets. "The buckets were invisible at first, but they obeyed the command of a _Revelio_ ; I can't understand why _'Finite'_ isn't working. I've tried standing directly under them and just about any other angle just in case there's some perfect spot to hit, but _nothing_!"

"Ah." He looks at the buckets and back to her; then to the mysteriously collecting water and back to her. "I suggest we leave then," he says, taking full advantage of the opportunity to wrap a hand around her wrist.

And touching her skin sends a fucking jolt of magic and fire up his arm, but he can't let it show because she's looking at him with a look that asks if he's gone mad.

"We can't just leave this!"

"What else is there to do?"

"We can crack this coded spell!" She sounds somewhere between incredulous and intrigued, and it's intoxicating being this close to her... "With two minds working on this," she says, "we can have this nonsense figured out and maybe even see if the little blighters left any clues behind!"

He sniggers because now she's not even trying to bury her fascination with fury; she's openly curious and in need of answers, and it pains him to have to tug on her wrist and step away from the wall.

"That would be a most diverting afternoon, but I'm now half soaked and have a class to teach shortly." He forces his eyes to lock onto hers, not straying a moment into dangerous territory. "You're in desperate need of a drying charm and there's no telling what may be waiting for you at the hospital wing if these have popped up anywhere else about the castle."

She looks like she wants to argue, but decides against it, pushing off from the wall, and pulling her wrist from his hold. It's a gentle action, not something to hint at distaste, but it leaves him feeling a chill nonetheless.

He takes another step away. "This could even be a fun practical class assignment for Flitwick, and I bet they'd have it all stopped up and cleared away before dinner ti—"

_Splash! Thud!_

"Merlin's _balls, ow!"_

Draco whirls instantly and drops to his knees in the water without a second thought, using every ounce of self-discipline he has to fix his eyes in her face and _not_ were her dress has bunched higher up her perfect thighs… "Are you all right?" His hands drift toward her of their own accord…

"I'm _f_ _ine!_ "

His hands still while his eyes narrow in concern. "Are you s—"

"Never mind with me," she interrupts, chocolate eyes once again flashing. She snatches his hands and closes her knees. "Let's just get up and out of here and once I'm properly dry, I'm Floo'ing directly to George's store."

It's as if a _Lumos_ is cast in Draco's mind as he helps her to her feet. "That bloody joke shop!"

" _Yes!"_ She's hissing and spitting and he thinks of a cat sharpening its claws. "I dismissed George's insufferable shop at first because he swore to me they've never had Professor McGonagall complain about an outburst of pranks, but _this_ …!" Her foot stomps the water, splashing both of them. "This is some attempt at reclaiming the magic of the portable swamp, and I'm not putting up with any more of his nonsense!"

She moves ahead of him, as if she wants to march, but it's looks more like sloshing about. And he wants to get lost in the way her dress is clinging to her arse. And how said arse is doing this hypnotic back-and forth sway—

"Come _on_ , Draco!"

She's insistent and already rounding the corner. By the time he's caught up to her, she's already cast a drying charm over herself and the dress. It catches him off-guard, and he's no idea what's happened to her bloody hair restraint, but all he knows now is that Hermione is now bending over, arse high in the air, wand aimed at her hair and she mutters something that must be a modified drying charm.

He sucks a sharp breath and squeezes his eyes shut as he casts a drying charm as well. Hermione may be marching off in a storm of righteous outrage once he's ready to move on, but Draco can't help but think how lucky he is at this exact moment.

* * *

"You're stalling."

"I am not."

Silence.

Neither say a word. Hermione wishes _he_ would, though. Or maybe she doesn't. She fiddles with the hem of the sleeve of her grey robes. She donned them immediately after entering the hospital wing this afternoon.

It's bloody awkward now that he's seen her soaking wet. Drenched to the bone, slipping arse-first in several inches of water. Oh, and, there's also that he's now seen every curve and non-curve of her body. Because sundresses tend to be _clingy_ when sopping wet.

That's what she gets for wanting to be _flirty_...

He speaks again: "Yes, you are." He's not even attempting to fight off his quintessential smirk. Or that glint in his eye.

She scowls. "Fine. I am." She can't meet his eyes anymore. Can't think about if he's thinking about seeing her in the wet dress still and if he liked it, or didn't like it. So she's now blinking at the floor, scuffing the large stone with the toe of her right shoe. "I don't want to get soaked again. I know it's been bloody hot out today, but three showers is quite enough for a single day, thank you very much." She tries to speak with as much dignity as she can muster.

But he's chuckling and she wants to hide away some more… "Flitwick said he's taken care of it."

"There's no guarantee of that."

He snorts. "Of course there is. He's been running tests on your corridor all afternoon." She says nothing and he fills the silence again. "I caught Flitwick out on the Quidditch pitch just a bit ago."

"Bully for you…" It's not polite, but she doesn't want to help it. She's well over this insufferable day.

"He said the Weasley shop is in the clear for this prank."

A growl sounds from the back of her throat and her hands ball into fists. "So George says."

"You don't believe him?"

More silence.

Their footsteps resound in this narrow corridor and the sconces are lit, creating shadows under their golden glow. She gives a resigned sigh. "I suppose I have no choice but to believe him. He denied that any of these were new pranks in the test phases. He denied having anything that works specifically as I described, though, granted, as I don't know the full specifics any spells or potions, I can't give him full details."

He nudges her shoulder and she doesn't want to fight off the pending smile either. "Then there's nothing more to worry over, Hermione." She tilts her face to look right at him, and he's already aiming this perfect smile.

One of those melting-swooning-puddling-confessing-undying-attraction-to smiles.

And, _Godric_. It broadens; the tips of it touching the crinkles around his warm grey eyes.

"Flitwick is just about at his maximum tolerance for all of this. The flood in your hallway took some doing for the students to figure out, and it's unfortunate that the fourth year doesn't even remember what she said to get the water to stop and the buckets to fall."

Hermione concedes to an unlady-like snort, which seems to widen his smile all the more.

"And you have to admit," he continues, slipping his hands in his pockets under his robe, "that self-inking quill thing, having it write in the air over the Quidditch pitch was a spell of creative genius."

She purses her lips. "I…" She _really_ doesn't want to. "Fine." Her breath escapes her lungs. "It is. It really is. And what's most infuriating is that I may not figure out the spell or the charm!"

He laughs and it's just so symphonic and rich that it draws her in. Perhaps the day isn't such a miserable waste of hours after all.

Their laughs mingle and clang in the hallway as they are walking to nowhere in particular, but their steps eventually lead to a staircase that marks the parting of their ways.

Except, there's something she's been wanting to say. Something that's been on the tip of her tongue during the last two serious and deeper conversations they've shared.

It's not until he's almost at the staircase that she calls out: "Draco."

He stops and turns around completely, not only so, but takes two steps back in her direction. One step forward by either of them would close the gap between them, and someone would be standing on the other person's shoes.

She looks him right in those vivid and perfect grey eyes. "I've been meaning to say it, so you know it… Really and truly know it without a hint of doubt or reason to question… I've forgiven you. For everything."

His throat bobs and she wants to take that last step to him so that there's no distance… Perhaps take one of his hands in hers, or both of them, and hold them close to her heart. Because it's something she just thinks he needs to hear. He needs to _know_.

She licks her lips and swallows. "I actually forgave you before your trial. After the war, honestly. You looked so broken and relieved huddled with your mum and dad in the aftermath. Something in the way you clung to your mother, I knew you'd done it all for them. I can relate to that more than most people immediately understand; I understood what all that entails back then, too."

"Doesn't make up for things that were done and said before." His voice is husky and thick, though for need of hearing this in general, or because there's something _more_ underneath it all, waiting to burst forth like a flower in the spring, she cannot say. Not with any degree of certainty.

It's necessary for her to swallow again, and _Godric_ , she has to stop licking her lips. "But you've apologised and I've forgiven you, as my letter said. And I'm telling you the same now in person."

"Why?" His chin lifts and he seems to be undecided if he's going to take that step or not.

"Because." She draws a shallow breath, and the weight of that clear, penetrating gaze is dizzying. "Anyone can see you're wholly dedicated to your career, your students, the duelling club, and your mother. I may be overstepping or overreaching here, and I apologise now if I am, but it's like you're waiting for permission to have more than that. Or may you don't think you deserve it."

His lips draw inward into a thin line and her heart rages against her breastbone, cursing her with every beat…

But she takes a half-step forward, clasping her hands together, watching him as he watches her. Neither of them blinking.

"You deserve to live and move on just as much as I or anyone, Draco." She blinks twice and offers him the beginnings of a smile. "You deserve more than just surviving and getting along. And something in me needed me to tell you all of that. And to remind you that you were forgiven by me years ago."

"Promise?"

It's a whisper in the air between them. A plea.

His face betrays nothing, save for a twitch in his cheek that she can't be certain she actually saw. She thinks now would be a brilliant time to end the gap between them and is about to step forward…

When laughter echoes in the corridor.

Because it's Friday night and students are milling about all carefree, not concerned with Monday's assignments in the slightest.

So she steps back twice before murmuring back, "I promise."

He smiles in such a way that she knows he heard her.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm completely blown away by the kind acceptance of this short story. You all have made sharing this story a pleasure. i'm posting this earlier than I planned because... I wanted to. I really can't say enough how much your support for this story means to me. I am so thankful for every favorite, follow and review.
> 
> Much love to alphas niffizzle and LadyKenz347 (you may also thank LK for her assistance with something certain at the end...) Infinite gratitude to beta CourtingInsanity. All remaining errors are mine.
> 
> I own no part of the Harry Potter franchise.

* * *

Draco fucking _loves_ flying.

His first real childhood memory is of him flying on a child's training broom at the Manor and crashing into his mother's garden not five minutes later. His mother had sprinted to him, cooing, checking him for injuries, brushing dirt from his face and hair, cuddling him to her.

Of course, he'd been a little boy (read: little shite) about it and immediately pushed her away, indignant and belligerent. When he fell again ten minutes later from a higher height, his bruised ego had him singing a different tune, and he'd soaked up every last ounce of sympathy she offered him then.

She likes to remind him of this story every so often, as a reminder of how much she's always loved him. Because he apparently ruined her garden that year, and never once did she scold him about falling into her flowers.

This morning, the morning after the water incident, the _forgiveness_ incident, the _almost kiss_ incident, Draco is flying.

His mind always wanders to obscure memories like his first time flying, when he thought he lost his stuffed dragon, but Mother had only had it because she was fixing a tear… It's part of coping through avoidance, or so he supposes.

That's the most logical explanation.

So as his mind decides to replay the falling in the flower bed this morning, he stops himself short, and forces all thought, all memory from his mind. He breathes in, filling his lungs to their maximum capacity and holds the almost-chilly morning air as he counts to ten.

He exhales slowly.

She forgives him. _Already had._ Years and years prior.

It's a strange thing: realising he has been living under the umbrella of extended forgiveness. And he hasn't really even known. A written letter is one thing…

Hearing the words ' _I forgive you_ ' is another thing altogether.

Seeing her act like she truly has, too… All that's accumulated over the course of these past few weeks... He can actually allow himself to believe she has as well.

He flies another several laps around the pitch, basking in this curious new sensation; mind wandering between the words she spoke and the possibility of lips meeting lips last night.

' _I understood what all that entails back then, too.'_

' _I've forgiven you. And I'm telling you now…"_

' _I've forgiven you. For everything.'_

And as he comes back down to the grass, he wonders if maybe, just maybe, all this time, he's just been waiting for a reason to forgive himself.

* * *

"Draco, did you hear?"

His heart lurches as _she's_ caught him looking like this. Like he's been flying, swerving, diving and circling a large pitch of faded green grass for hours (read: sweaty and wind-blown). He wants to mock himself, because that's what he's been doing and how else should he look? There's just something she does to him, though…

He turns to face her, meeting expectant chocolate eyes. "I hear many things at various times, Hermione; what are you referring to right now?" He tries to sound breezy, but he's caught off-guard that she's already within much closer proximity than he anticipated.

_Does he smell?_

Perhaps not, because she's grinning from ear-to-ear and moves closer still. "Professor Flitwick just made the school wide cease and desist over all the pranks or Quidditch will be cancelled for the year."

"Shite." Draco runs a hand through his hair, _not at all_ attempting to smooth it or style it, thank you very much. "Did something else happen?"

"Apparently so. I'm hearing it from Brocklehurst, but it seems all the portraits in the hallway near the Ravenclaw common room entrance had been charmed to make vulgar comments when someone answered the riddle wrong."

Draco's stunned into silence. Absolute silence. "Brocklehurst must have heard wrong," is all he can think to answer with.

"Maybe." The witch shrugs, her loose curls catching in the breeze of the arched entryway. "Either way, Neville and Nott asked if we wanted to get get drinks with them tonight at _The Leaky Cauldron_."

"What? Just the four of us celebrating how we survived the first three weeks of the year?" He's predictably confused as he'd never been out for drinks with Theo _and_ Longbottom.

She giggles and tucks a stray curl behind her ear. And he has to focus very hard to not be reminded of how glorious it looked when her curls clung to wet skin yesterday…

"...wives will be coming, too." She's speaking. That's good. He can focus on innocent things like breathing and on the words she's speaking and maintaining eye contact. And definitely not letting his eyes drop to her lips as she's speaking. She continues: "And Neville has already said he'll be asking Ron and Harry to join. Nott spoke of inviting the Zabinis, so it'll be a full group."

"Brocklehurst wasn't invited?" He arches a faux accusing brow, and it surprises him that she only shrugs.

"I heard something about it being her weekend of chaperoning and didn't inquire further."

They both chuckle and there's this glow about her today. She's a bloody ember lit from within. She's rocking back-and-forth on her feet and smiling. His gaze can't help but trace all over her... There are soft dimples in her cheeks and how has he never noticed this before?

He can't bloody look away. He needs to do something before he gives in to this force of nature that calls him to lean down and claim her lips with his… As he's all sweaty and in his old Quidditch jersey...

"I have a Floo connection in my quarters," he blurts out, wincing and ready to kick himself. Not entirely what he had in mind _—_ but there's nothing for it. The words are now floating in the space between them as her dimples deepen. "That is—" he coughs and clears his throat "—if you would prefer to not bother Flitwick any more than necessary you could use mine. As a professional courtesy to him, of course. If you'd like."

He's an idiot. He really is. And he _knows_ he's about to be rejected because that smile she's smiling at him is softening and now bordering on the worst emotion anyone has ever expressed: _pity_.

"I appreciate the offer, Draco, but I have some errands I need to run in Diagon Alley before we meet up for drinks." She's still smiling that pitying smile and he's nodding and about to respond when she adds, "But save me a seat if you arrive before me, all right?"

"All right." _Breathe. Just breathe._

The dimples return and she's beaming now and it's impossible for his body to perform what Hermione's science knowledge has told him is an 'involuntary reaction'. She begins to turn away, but pauses, meeting his eye once again. "Since we're both coming back to the same place, I'll take you up on the invitation, if the offer's still good for after."

He blinks. Hermione. Coming back to. Hogwarts. With him.

_After._

"Yes."

The glorious rays of sunshine from her face turn to muted shades of yellow and orange and it's like being awake to catch the first glimpse of the sun for the day.

"Great. I'll see you tonight, Draco."

* * *

He saved her a seat.

Maybe it was the opposite of that Gryffindor courage she's supposed to possess, but she tells herself she _truly_ had errands to see to. At least some of a personal nature, that is. She had spent an hour at the park her mum had taken her on Saturdays as a little girl. She'd spent another hour at the football pitch watching a weekend pickup match, thinking of her dad. She walked up and down the sidewalk by her childhood home under the protection of a Disillusionment charm.

She let the memories fill and permitted herself the time to soak. To drink them in; sometimes one-by-one, and other times all at once as they floated to her mind.

She left the house to complete her real errands in Diagon Alley at peace.

There is closure now. She knows her dad still plays his occasional football match and her mum has friends who have grandchildren. She knows they permit her to come and participate in play times as often as she wishes.

They're happy. They're alive.

And now she's decided that is enough. It is more than enough.

But what she's curious about now is how it might look to have someone by her side more often at gatherings like this. How it would feel to have someone to go home with at the end of the gathering.

Draco's laughter is warm, and he's thrown an arm over the back of her chair, even though she's leaning forward and laughing at one of Nott's hair colour experiences.

She likes that it doesn't seem so very out-of-place in her imagination to see herself leaning back into his warmth. Alone or within this group, or another similar gathering.

She risks it. She risks the looks and open nosey stares and settles back into her chair. Draco stiffens, and for a moment she's concerned she misinterpreted something. But when he shifts and makes himself more comfortable in his own seat and takes a swig from his drink, she knows something has been defined in the undefined.

He's able to create a space for her to lean into, and she's able to lean.

She decides to answer Nott's leering look with a wink, which sends him into a coughing fit. His adorable second trimester wife begins to rub soothing circles across his back while beaming at Hermione. Harry's emerald eyes twinkle at her from behind their frames and Luna's smile is slight, but present. Ron merely sips his drink and shifts closer to his wife. Ginny and Blaise share twin smirks and Neville's obscured from her direct line of vision, but she predicts he'll ask something eventually…

Harry resumes the conversation, as if it's the most natural act in the world for Hermione share space with _someone_. "So when did this hair prank happen?" he asks, propping his arm one the table. "End of the term before summer holiday?"

All Hogwarts staff and their spouses snigger as one, Neville and Theo being the loudest. And suddenly Neville is lost to riotous laughter, his hand pounding once against the table.

"Mate!" he gasps, scooting forward and looking to Theo, Draco and Hermione before his eyes fall back to Harry. "You've really no idea. We didn't say anything about it at Hermione's birthday, but it's been the wildest first three weeks back I can remember."

Hermione snorts and Draco chimes in, "And that's saying something."

"What happened?" Ron asks, his mouth half-full of chips.

The staff answer in unison:

"Spelled hair colour."

"Invisible body parts."

"Flooding hallway."

"Self-inking quill writing in the air."

"Charmed lewd and swearing portraits."

The remainder of the table blinks back in unison.

"Blimey, that's _all_?" Zabini sniffs. "No international death tournament to prepare for or pink toad Ministry employee out to sack McGonagall?"

"Ten points to Zabini," Hermione says, losing a dark chuckle. If one couldn't just _laugh_ at the absurdities they all survived… "But actually, Professor McGonagall has been at a conference for the month; she won't get back until next week. It's a case of when the cat's away."

She is caught up in laughing at her own joke until she realises it's only Harry that's joining in.

In fact, the others all appear confused… Even Draco, though she's certain she just felt his fingers skim over her shoulder. "What? That can't be an expression limited to the Muggle world."

"Seems it might be, witch," Draco answers, voice low and silken and sending shivers down her neck. It's as if they're sharing some secret… "But if you explain it to us, we'll all be in on the joke."

"Oh... Yes. Of course." Her cheeks are on fire and it's hard to focus beyond the racing of her heart. "It's just an expression that when the cat's away, the mice will play." No one laughs and she thinks they've forgotten. "You know, because Professor McGonagall's animagus is a cat, and her Patronus is three cats with spectacles."

Ron, Godric bless him, chuckles first. "I get it 'Mione. Clever." The rest of the table joins in light laughter, out of politeness, Hermione _knows_ it, but Draco's hand brushes against her shoulder again, lingering a little longer this time, and Hermione decides it doesn't matter if no one appreciates clever humour.

"You said disappearing limbs and a self-inking air quill?" Harry's wrapped a finger around his chin and his forefinger is tapping in apparent thought.

"Right-oh!" Nott answers, throwing a salute across the table.

"And changing hair colours, a flooding hallway and then crass portraits."

"Correct again, Potter," Draco says while a frown begins to tug downward at Hermione's lips.

Harry's second arm joins the first on the table and he threads his fingers together. "Are the portraits still making jokes?"

Hermione's definitely frowning now, and it's Neville who speaks up this time. "Flitwick was able to cancel out the charm. It's funny, though, it seemed a bit familiar when he said it, but I couldn't figure out why."

"'Mischief managed'?" Harry tries.

"That's it!"

Hermione jerks upright in her seat…

Ron slams his drink on the table. "Harry! That's just like with…"

"Harry James Potter!" Hermione's out for blood now. _Of course_ he's at the root of this somehow! "What in Merlin's name have you done?!"

The emerald eyed wizard is beginning to look sheepish. "I just… Merlin, I didn't think it'd be read as a manual or guide…"

"Read. _What_?" Hermione is giving that withering stare that once upon a time scared Harry and Ron. Judging by the way Harry is now sinking in his seat, it seems she's not completely lost her touch.

"It's a book that got published in May…" Harry runs his hands through his hair and looks to Luna. "Merlin, I'm… I didn't think kids were going to buy it and use the stories and half spells as some sort of manifesto or inspiration."

"Of course you didn't intend for this, love." His witch presses the sweetest of kisses to his cheek. "It was a lovely tribute to your godfather and I think from the little I know of him, he'd have been proud to have inspired such pandemonium." Luna's pecking nauseated kisses down Harry's jaw, coming down to his lips…

"Do _not_ start snogging until we get answers!" Hermione bursts. It's too much, really. They've been put through the ringer this month and Harry's about to kiss it off as an accident.

Luna doesn't appear embarrassed in the least as she pulls away. Harry's a bit more flushed, and he clears his throat. "In journaling and whatnot, I thought I'd collect some more stories of my dad, Sirius and Remus from their years at Hogwarts. I meant it to be a thing for my own kids someday. Mine and Luna's that is." He pauses to share a sickly precious look with Luna who hums back at him, "But Luna mentioned seeing about publishing it. I was shocked the company did, and had no idea anyone had purchased copies yet."

Theo scoffs at the Auror. "You hadn't noticed the extra income you've suddenly be receiving?"

"It's set up as an automatic transfer into a sub-account I set up." Harry just shakes his head. "It hadn't even occurred to me to check it yet."

Hermione's face falls into her hands. It's amazing, it really is. Even when he's _not_ at school, he's still indirectly involved in whatever mischief can happen at Hogwarts. With a sigh she lifts her head. "What's the title of the book, Harry?"

He takes a long pull of his drink before answering: " _The Adventures of Prongs, Padfoot and Moony._ "

* * *

 

"Unbelievable."

"Hilarious if you think about it."

Hermione glares at her walking companion. "It's really not."

"Come on." Draco bumps her shoulder. "You know it is. I can't decide if it's more hilarious that the answer was under all our noses this whole time—"

"—In the _bookshops_ of all places!"

Draco chuckles. "Right, there's that. And then there's the fact neither Flitwick nor Hagrid nor any of the ghosts remembered these pranks, or gave anyone any clues."

A resigned sigh. "I know." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "Perhaps Potter and company spread their pranks out enough that it felt so long ago. And I'm sure the Fred and George years make it difficult to keep straight which set of students got up to what."

"Probably right."

Draco's pace adjusts to hers as they continue walking. He'd surprised her and suggested they Floo to _The Three Broomsticks_ and walk back to Hogwarts from Hogsmead. The weather is perfect in late evening/early night in September and Hermione agreed, not giving their drinking companions a second look as she disappeared in a blaze of green and grey.

Draco's arm brushes against hers for the fourth time since they started walking, and the touch emboldens her to ask without even thinking: "Do you want to be my plus one at Harry and Luna's wedding?"

"Pardon?" He sounds neither shocked nor repulsed, but a proper explanation is probably in order.

"I'm standing up with Luna in the ceremony in April," she begins to explain, clearing her throat quickly. "And while I don't have an invitation in my hands that says I can bring a plus one, I know that's usually how these things work, and I'm asking you now if you'd like to be mine for their wedding in April."

Her cheeks flame and heart sinks as she considers her words, but she takes nothing back. She waits as the seconds collect and bleed into each other, until…

"Yes. I'd be happy to attend as your plus one."

"Really?" She's dizzy and there are suspicious flutters in her stomach. "Even if it's for Harry Potter's wedding?"

"I survived drinks this evening." He winks and her heart may take flight. "And once the ceremony is over, it's all about who you mingle with at the reception. Between Hermione Granger and an open bar, I'm confident it'll be night to remember.

"Right." Her heart desperately needs to settle before it escapes from her ribcage. "Here's hoping then."

There's several near agonised moments of non-conversation following and Hermione is desperate to fill the silence, but this onslaught of _feelings_ and hormones has apparently rendered her tongue useless.

"I suppose it would be sensible if we went out at least few times extra in the between months."

Draco has spoken and she fights to bury a smile.

"Oh?" Hardly articulate, but inviting for an explanation.

He's nodding. "It'd be best if we knew each other better beforehand so we'll have plenty to talk about at the reception and I'll know if you prefer champagne, white wine or red wine. Or if you're a whiskey or rum girl. That way I can have a drink ready for you right after the ceremony."

She surrenders to the smile and, Godric help her, her face will _burst_ with the force of this smile.

"Who knows," Draco continues, "we may just learn some important things about each other." His eyes lock onto hers, and even in the fading light, she can see the depths they mirror from within. His voice is lower as he says, "For instance, what are your views on marriage? Are you an unapologetic mocker of the institution or simply waiting for the right someone to come along?"

There's a lump in her throat and her lips part…

But _his_ have curled into a crooked grin. "Or, even _more_ difficult to answer: what's your favourite colour?"

She considers immediately answering that she's always preferred grey. Grey like gathering clouds over the lake or the sea. Grey like a pile of ashes just before a phoenix is reborn. Grey like a muted calm before the sun rises and the sky is thrown into a chaotic display of colours.

Instead, she takes a half sidestep and leans. She rises to the tips of her toes and presses her lips to his cheek.

It's smooth and warm, and she lets them linger. Her heart falters when he brings a hand to trace her jawline just before she pulls away.

Her voice is husky as she says, "Suppose you trade with Nott this coming weekend for Hogsmeade duty and I'll answer any and all of your questions then."

He takes her hands in his, threading his fingers with hers, applying gentle pressure. So that they resemble woven layers. "Sounds like a plan, Hermione."

There's something about the way his thumb runs smooth lines over the back of her palm. Shivers skate down her spine that she knows has nothing to do with the barest nip of the evening air.

She has little time to think, to remember, the last time she was _truly_ kissed before he's leaning down. He's quickly filled in most of the space between them, and her eyes almost flutter shut in anticipation… Until she discovers he's hovering.

He's allowing his lips to linger over hers and as soon a puff of warm breath skims her lips, she lifts her face to close the remaining gap.

It's hesitant and tentative at first, and she's worried at how woefully out-of-practice she is when he drops her hands, but she isn't left to fret for long. He swallows her every insecurity as he angles and presses his lips deeper; one hand climbs up her neck and tangles into her curls, weaving them between his fingers as the other flattens against her back, drawing her closer.

Anything she can think is cliché, but maybe that's all right. Maybe she's been waiting all this time for sighs and moans like she hears Draco releasing—or maybe they're hers. Maybe her fingers have been longing for these specific shoulders to knead and this silken hair to thread between their gaps...

Eventually, she knows, time will resume at its normal pace, no longer lingering in reverent observation of two hearts tasting and discovering.

Eventually, Hermione will break this blissful bubble because neither the curl in her toes nor the fire in her blood can make up for the lack of oxygen to her lungs.

Eventually, more will have to be said… But for now…

Right now she is suddenly and quite unexpectedly thankful for everything that's brought her to this moment.

_Finis_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you so for reading this little piece. I'm beyond grateful for the support for this story.  
> i have some gift oneshots I'll be posting all through the month, and I'm excited to share them. Until then, thank you again for everything. xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Would love to hear what you think! Thanks for reading <3


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